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THEROIGNE  DE  MERICOURT; 


IN    FIVE    PARTS, 


BY 


LOUIS    S.    D.    REES 


PART  I. 


WILLIS     P.    HAZARD, 


ur 


178  CHESNUT  STREET. 
f9       f 


4, 

&_.  .  •    •  • 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tlie  year  1855,  by 

LOUIS  S.  D.  REES. 

in  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in 
and  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


INQUIRER  BOOK  PRESS,  57  SOUTH  THIRD  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA, 


To  ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE — 

The  traveller,  poet,  orator,  historian; — whose 
holy  eloquence  in  the  hour  of  revolutionary  ex- 
citement did  more  for  the  good  of  humanity  and  the 
honor  of  his  country,  than  even  the  varied  and 
beautiful  productions  of  his  pen  have  done  for  his 
own  literary  fame, — this  First  Part  of  a  Romance, 
the  idea  of  which  was  suggested  by  a  perusal  of  the 
"Histoire  des  Girondins,"  is  most  respectfully 
inscribed  by  his  obedient  servant  and  sincere 
admirer, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


TO  THE  PUBLIC. 

The  favorable  opinions  expressed  by  his  friends, 
have  emboldened  the  author  of  the  following  lines  to 
submit  them  to  the  public  eye.  He  does  so  with 
considerable  hesitation;  not  only  because  he  appre- 
ciates the  difficulties  of  the  task  he  has  undertaken 
in  attempting  to  write  a  romance,  but  also  because 
he  is  aware  that  there  is  a  general  indisposition  on 
the  part  of  the  reading  world,  to  give  attention  to 
any  thing  that  comes  to  it  in  a  metrical  form.  He 
invokes,  however,  a  patient  perusal  and  a  candid 
judgment,  if  not  for  his  own  sake,  yet  at  least  for 
the  sake  of  her  whom  he  has  chosen  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  his  song, —  Theroigne  de  Mericourt,  one  of 
the  most  beautiful,  the  most  gifted,  and  the  most 
ill-fated  of  women. 


168  Chesnut  Street,   March  2nd,  1855. 


THEROIGNE  DE  MEKICOURT. 

A  ROMANCE. 


PABT    I. 

Hark !  what  cry  of  wild  despair 
Rudely  wakes  the  slumbering  air? 
See !  what  spectral  figure  stands ; 
Stretches  forth  its  withered  hands; 
Lays  its  throbbing  bosom  bare ; 
Tears  its  long  and  streaming  hair; 
Upward  glances  to  the  sky; 
Downward  turns  its  flashing  eye; 
Loudly  laughs  with  causeless  glee; 
Weeps  at  fancied  misery  ? 

No  decent  robe  of  pride  and  taste 
Is  girdled  round  that  fragile  waist; 
No  gem-set  gold  or  braided  twist 
Encompasses  that  slender  wrist; 
Nor  sparkles  on  her  hand  the  ring, 
Whose  magic  circle  still  might  bring 
Back  to  the  soul  all  fresh  and  warm, 
Some  lost  but  not  forgotten  form:  — 


But  squalid  raiment,  coarse  and  mean, 
Where  many  a  gaping  rent  is  seen, 
Too  oft  to  wanton  eye  betrays 
Charms  never  meant  for  idle  gaze ; 
While  the  rough  cord  and  rattling  chain, 
Her  movements'  wild  excess  restrain. 

But  list!  she  speaks; — and  Oh!  such  words 
Of  horror,  that  (like  reeking  swords, 
Which,  stained  with  gouttes  of  human  gore, 
Still  gleam  as  if  they  asked  for  more,) 
They  seem  to  come  from  one  whose  hand 
Hath  done  the  deeds  a  fiend  had  plann'd. 

"Off  with  his  head!  Away!"  she  cries;  — 

"No  mercy  here! — the  traitor  dies! 

"  Blood,  blood  we'll  have,  to  quench  our  thirst 

"  For  vengeance  on  the  race  accurst, — 

"  Those  proud  aristocrats,  whose  reign, 

"  Millions  had  mourned,  but  mourned  in  vain. 

"Raise  the  tall  scaffold  to  the  sky! 

"'Twere  sweet  to  see  our  tyrants  die. — 

"  Ha !  ha !  bethink  thee  of  the  day 

"  When,  lured  from  home  and  peace  away, 

"I  left — What!  shrink  ye  back,  vile  race? 

"  Cowards !  away !  Give  woman  place ! 

"And  let  her  wield  the  avenging  knife! 

"  And  let  her  head  the  glorious  strife ! — 

"Oh!  spare  me,  spare  me!"  yet  she  cries: 

"  Not  now !  not  here !  before  all  eyes ! 


"Bury  me  in  some  dungeon  deep; 

"  Or  hmi  me  down  the  craggy  steep ; 

"  Qr  cast  me  to  the  raging  flame ; 

"But  do  not — Ha !  to  see  my  shame 

"  Thou  too  hast  left  thy  silent  grave ! 

"  Or  art  thou  come  thy  child  to  save  ? 

"  Scourge  me  ?  it  cannot,  shall  not  be :  — 

"  See,  see !  my  bonds  are  burst,— I'm  free  !"— 

Poor  maniac  wretch !  'tis  Death  alone 
Shall  free  thee  from  those  walls  of  stone; 
Those  iron  bars;  that  clanking  chain; 
That  worse  than  any  real  pain ;  — 
Those  fancied  tortures  of  the  mind, 
The  direst  that  afflict  mankind. 

Alas !  can  madness  thus  efface 

Each  beauteous  trait,  each  winning  grace ; 

And  sink  the  sacred  human  form 

Beneath  the  level  of  the  worm? 

Ah !  I  have  seen  the  new-born  charms 

Of  infants  in  their  mothers'  arms, 

Just  waking  from  a  sweet  repose, 

Disfigured  by  convulsive  throes : — 

I've  seen  Consumption's  hand  of  stealth 

Plant  lilies  on  the  brow  of  health, 

And  draw  the  shadows  of  the  tomb 

Athwart  youth's  bright  and  sunny  bloom : — 

I've  seen,  beneath  Contagion's  power, 

The  loveliest  form,  like  some  fair  flower, 


8 


Smitten  with  such  a  fearful  blight, 
That  Pity  sickened  at  the  sight : — 
I've  seen  the  ashes  of  the  dead 
Thrown  festering  from  their  lowly  bed, 
And  left  exposed  to  common  view 
As  if  to  show  what  Death  can  do : — 
But  all  was  mercy,  beauty  all, 
Compared  with  what  men  Madness  call; — 
That  makes  the  intellectual  sight 
Impervious  save  to  Hell's  own  light; — 
That  shuts  the  intellectual  ear 
Save  to  the  damnings  of  despair; — 
That  prompts  the  virgin's  lip  to  speak 
Words  so  debased,  that  to  the  cheek 
Of  common  wantons  there  would  rush, 
While  uttering  them,  the  burning  blush; — 
That  sways  its  sceptre  of  control 
Where  tyrants  cannot — o'er  the  soul; — 
And  makes  a  thing  of  human  birth 
A  very  demon  upon  earth. 

God !  if  for  records  on  my  page 

Of  early  youth  or  later  age  ; — 

Records  of  crimes  against  thy  law — 

Thy  hand  the  avenging  sword  must  draw; 

Oh !  let  its  stroke  remorseless  fall 

On  health,  wealth,  freedom,  life; — yea,  all: 

Yet,  in  my  sorrow's  darkest  hour, 

Let  Reason  still  retain  its  power; 

Nor  quench  that  last  celestial  ray, 

Till  in  death's  shades  Fpass  away ! 


9 


But  turn  we  from  this  dreary  sight 
To  view  a  scene  where  all  is  bright; 
Where  thoughtless  youth  and  sober  age 
Alike  in  rustic  sports  engage ; 
And,  turning  from  their  toils  away, 
Join  in  a  general  holiday : 
While  Virtue  can  without  a  frown 
Upon  the  merry  group  look  down; 
And  e'en  Religion  smiles  to  see 
Their  pure  unsullied  revelry. 

There  are  spots  in  creation  which  Nature's  own  hand 
Would  seem  in  her  happiest  moods  to  have  plann'd ; 
Or  some  potent  magician,  with  mystical  spell, 
To  have  raised  as  a  home  where  a  Peri  might  dwell : 
So  radiantly  bright,  or  so  calmly  serene ; 
So  free  from  all  shadows  to  darken  the  scene; 
That  'tis  hard  to  believe  the  deep  wrinkle  of  care 
Can  furrow  the  brows  of  the  favored  ones  there ; 
Or  the  terrible  phantoms  of  sickness  and  death 
Pollute  the  fair  place  with  their  pestilent  breath. 

Perchance  'tis  some  mansion  of  opulent  ease 
Half  hid  from  the  view  by  embosoming  trees; 
Placed  high  on  the  brow  of  a  verdure-clad  hill, 
As  a  monument  reared  to  its  architect's  skill : 
Not  vulgarly  tricked  out,  for  gaudy  display, 
With  pillars  of  plaster,  and  coatings  of  clay; 
But  simple  yet  noble,  as  best  might  become, 
Not  the  splendor  of  state,  but  the  comfort  of  home. 


10 

In  front  a  broad  meadow,  where  browse  or  recline 
The  favorite  horse,  and  the  well-fatted  kine, 
The  innocent  lamb,  and  the  matronly  ewe, — 
Just  enough  to  give  quiet  repose  to  the  view : 
More  near  a  choice  garden,  from  whose  spicy  bowers 
Exhales  the  sweet  odor  of  thousands  of  flowers, 
Where,  like  faithless  adorers,  the  butterfly  gay 
Just  sips  of  their  sweetness,  then  flutters  away. 

•T  li'-iJT 

Perchance  'tis  some  castle,  whose  battlements  rise 

As  if  conscious  of  strength,  till  they  threaten  the 

skies ; 

While  its  deep-laid  foundations,  embracing  the  rock, 
Have  stood,  and  shall  stand,  of  long  ages  the  shock. 
Around,  rugged  steeps,  which  the  goat  cannot  climb, 
Stand  as  bulwarks  against  the  encroachments  of 

Time. 

Far  below  foams  a  torrent,  whose  waters  now  flash 
'Neath  the  blaze  of  the  sun;  now  mysteriously  dash 
Through  the  gloom  of  ravines,  from  whence  issues 

alone 
The  deep  roar  of  its  waves,  or  the  rock's  hollow 

groan ; 

While  the  landscape  beyond  wears  an  aspect  so  soft, 
So  unlike  the  huge  relic  which  towers  aloft, 
That  it  seems  like  an  infant  laid  prostrate  in  prayer 
At  the  feet  of  the  giant  who  frowns  on  it  there. 

Perchance  'tis  some  valley  where,  hid  from  mankind, 
A  few  tranquil  spirits  their  paradise  find ; 


11 

Who,  sick  of  the  world,  with  its  bitter  and  sweet, 
Have  sought  refuge  from  all  in  this  welcome  retreat. 

But  all  that  elsewhere  boasts  of  grandeur  or  grace, 
Met  in  one  to  embellish  the  beautiful  place, 
Whose  innocent  revelry  gladdens  our  eye 
As  we  turn  with  alarm  from  the  maniac's  cry. 
See  the  castle,  which  still,  in  defiance  of  Time, 
Stands  as  firm  in  its  age  as  it  stood  in  its  prime; 
Though  the  festival  pomp  and  the  feudal  array 
Which  it  witnessed  of  old  have  long  since  passed 

away. 

See  the  mansion,  whose  lordly  possessor  combines 
The  wealth  that  commands  with   the  taste  that 

refines  :  — 

And  there,  far  below,  in  that  beautiful  vale, 
See    the   homes   where   repose   and   contentment 

prevail  ; 

Where  no  one  can  boast  of  broad  acres  he  owns, 
And  no  one  unpitied  in  misery  groans  ; 
Where  the  milk  of  their  flocks,  or  the  fruit  of  their 

fields 

To  each,  without  luxury,  competence  yields; 
And  if  there,  as  elsewhere,  bread  is  purchased  by 

toil, 

Yet  the  labor  bestowed  on  a  generous  soil 
But  renders  more  welcome  the  calm  eventide, 
When,  sitting  at  ease  by  his  own  fireside, 
Or  reclining  outstretched  'neath  the  sun's  western 


With  his  "gudewife"  at  hand  and  his  children  at 
Play, 


12 

The  poorest  man  feels  a  warm  glow  at  his  heart, 
Such  as  wealth  with  its  splendors  can  never  impart; 
And  looking  towards  heaven  he  gratefully  sings, 
"'Tis  the  Good  God  above  us  who  gives  these  good 
things."* 

It  was  not  in  that  sea-girt  isle, 
Where  Liberty  with  radiant  smile 

Shines  equally  on  all; 
While  Commerce  with  a  bounteous  hand 
Spreads  plenty  o'er  the  favored  land, 

Obedient  to  her  call :  — 

It  was  not  in  this  western  sphere 
Where  Nature's  giant  forms  appear 

In  cataract,  tree,  or  plain; 
While  mighty  floods  impetuous  sweep, 
Now  broad  as  seas,  and  now  as  deep, 

Down  to  the  circling  main : — 

It  was  not  in  that  sunny  land 

Whence  Dante's  pen  and  Raphael's  hand 

Electrified  the  world ; 
Whence  Rome,  the  mistress  of  mankind, 
Through  every  clime,  to  every  wind, 

Her  conquering  flag  unfurled  : — 

It  was  in  thee,  thou  lovely  France, 
Land  of  the  festive  song  and  dance, 
Foremost  on  history's  page ; 

*  "  Deus  nobis  haec  otia  fecit." 


13 


Where  still  new  scenes  of  wonder  rise 
To  take  the  nations  by  surprise, 
As  age  succeeds  to  age ! 

Oh !  who  that  treads  thy  princely  halls. 
And  views  upon  their  gorgeous  walls 

The  records  of  thy  fame; 
Or  sees  thy  columns,  mounting  high 
And  pointing  upward  to  the  sky, 

Inscribed  with  many  a  name : — 

Who  that  recalls  the  noble  men 
Potent  to  wield  the  sword  or  pen, 

To  conquer  or  to  save; 
Who  hailed  thee  as  their  land  of  birth, 
And  found  in  thee  their  bed  of  earth, 

Their  cradle  and  their  grave : — 

Who  that  remembers  that  thy  land 
Was  rescued  once  by  woman's  hand 

From  fierce  invading  foes ; 
And  cowering  'neath  the  hated  yoke, 
At  her  command  its  fetters  broke 

And  in  its  strength  uprose : — 

Who  that  bethinks  him  of  the  man 
Whose  mighty  mind  alike  could  span 

The  little  and  the  great; 
Could  keep  a  conquered  world  in  awe, 
Construct  a  road,  reform  a  law, 

Or  renovate  a  state : —  - 

2 


14 

Who  that  to  all  these  marvels  turns, 
Can  wonder  at  the  pride  that  burns 

Within  each  son  of  thine, 
As,  counting  o'er  thy  countless  charms, 
Thy  deeds  in  arts,  thy  deeds  in  arms, 

He  cries,  "  This  land  is  mine  T 

Nor  let  me  pass  unheeded  by 
That  kind  unvarying  courtesy 

Which  every  stranger  meets, 
Who  moves  thy  higher  walks  among, 
Or  mingles  with  the  meaner  throng 

That  traverses  thy  streets. 

Oh  !  it  hath  been  my  lot  to  roam1 
Par  from  my  country  and  my  home 

With  desolated  heart ; 
And  still  thy  gentle,  kindly  smile 
Could  soothe  my  grief,  my  cares  beguile, 

And  peace  and  hope  impart. 

But  wherefore  to-day  All  this  festive  array,    * 
Wherein  rich  and  poor  equally  share  ? 

What  lends  a  new  grace  To  the  child's  merry  face, 
And  smooths  the  rough  forehead  of  Care  ? 

Why  floats  o'er  the  hall  And  the  old  castle  wall 
The  banner  so  gorgeous  and  bright;] 

While  each  cottage  is  seen  Decked  with  garlands 

of  green, 
To  betoken  its  owner's  delight  ? 


15 


What  wakes  the  glad  notes  Whose  sweet  harmony 
floats 

From  yon  church  o'er  the  scene  far  and  near  ? 
And  why  does  the  song  Of  the  peasant  prolong 

The  sweet  sound  as  it  falls  on  his  ear? 

Why  groans  the  full  board  With  each  luxury  stored, 
Where  the  lord  and  his  tenantry  join? 

And  why  does  the  glass  So  incessantly  pass 
With  its  bumpers  of  generous  wine  ? 

Is  it  Victory's  voice  Bids  the  rustics  rejoice 
O'er  their  country's  success  in  the  field  ? 

Or  the  last  sheaf  of  corn   From   the  harvesting 

borne 
At  the  close  of  a  plentiful  yield  ? 

No ;  the  vale  and  hill-top  With  the  ungathered  crop 
Still  shine  as  with  gilding  o'erspread; 

And  the  revelry  here  Is  unstained  by  the  tear 
Which  the  widow  and  orphan  have  shed. 

Little  they  know  who  sit,  and  gaze 
With  eager  eyes  upon  the  blaze 
Of  glaring  light  and  gaudy  hue 
With  which  the  drama  courts  their  view : 
Who  see  now  lamp-lit  suns  arise, 
Now  clouds  bedeck  the  canvas  skies ; 
Now  the  tall  ship,  whose  outspread  sails 
Are  swelled  by  artificial  gales; 


16 


Now  the  cool  grot,  or  woodland  shade, 
As  if  in  taunting  mockery  made 
Of  that  o'ercrowded  human  mass 
Who  hail  the  wonders  as  they  pass : — 
Little  they  know  how  dark  and  drear 
Viewed  from  behind  those  scenes  appear, 
Where  nought  but  dust  and  cobwebs  hide 
The  vile  reverse  of  all  that  pride : 

Little  they  know  who  raise  the  shout 
That  greets  the  player,  strutting  out 
To  act  his  part  with  mimic  skill 
Obedient  to  another's  will, 
And  weep  or  laugh,  grieve  or  rejoice 
According  to  the  prompter's  voice : — 
Little  that  gaping  crowd  can  tell 
What  real  joys  his  bosom  swell ; 
Or  what  unfeigned  distress  and  pain 
May  wring  his  heart,  and  fire  his  brain ! 

» 

And  have  not  bards  in  every  age 
Told  us  "  this  life  is  but  a  stage ;" 
And  each  man,  at  his  best  estate, 
An  actor  in  the  scenes  of  fate  ? 
Who  wears  a  smile,  who  drops  a  tear 
Obedient  to  a  heart  sincere? 
Where  is  the  man  that  does  not  throw 
A  mantle  o'er  his  weal  and  woe, 
And  deck  him  with  a  borrowed  plume 
Ere  he  step  forth  to  rave  and  fame, 


17 


And  tread  the  boards  of  life's  wide  stage, 

The  amusement  of  a  passing  age  ? 

And  when,  despite  the  busy  play, 

We  steal  at  intervals  away, 

And  hide  us  in  lone  solitudes 

Where  no  unwelcome  eye  intrudes; 

Is  it  not  there,  and  there  alone, 

We  truly  smile,  and  truly  groan? 

And  when  Death  lets  the  curtain  fall  i 

On  play,  and  players,  scenes,  and  all, 

Do  we  not  then  first  lay  aside 

The  counterfeiting  garb  of  pride, 

And  stand  before  our  Maker's  eye 

In  beauty  or  deformity? 

Yes,  'tis  -an  universal  truth, — 

In  hoary  age,  in  sprightly  youth ; — 

Deep  sunk  in  vice,  by  virtue  raised; — 

Courted  or  shunned,  reviled  or  praised; — 

Though  scanned  by  many  a  curious  eye, 

UNKNOWN  WE  LIVE,  UNKNOWN  WE  DIE. 

Behold  yon  mansion's  noble  lord  ! 
With  ample  wealth  his  chest  is  stored; 
His  barn,  his  granary  abounds 
With  the  rich  produce  of  his  grounds; 
The  scutcheon  of  his  ancient  race 
No  treason  stains,  no  crimes  debase ; 
And  he  as  proudly  lifts  his  head 
As  any  of  the  ancestral  dead. 
The  world  applaud  his  happy  state, 
Envy  a  man  so  rich  and  great, 
2* 


18 

Nor  doubt  that  he,  at  least,  is  free 
From  the  sad  entail, — misery ! 

Had  not  they  seen  him  bow  his  head 

In  drooping  anguish  o'er  that  bed, 

Where,  racked  with  pain  and  fell  disease, 

His  son,  his  only  son  he  sees  ? 

Had  they  not  seen  him  wipe  away 

With  trembling  hand  the  drops  that  lay 

Upon  that  brow  so  still  and  fair, 

Like  tears  which  Death  himself  shed  there  ? 

Had  they  not  seen,  as,  hour  by  hour, 

Faded  that  beauteous  fragile  flower, 

The  father's  features  gathered  gloom 

From  the  dark  shadows  of  the  tomb? 

And,  when  the  agonising  gasp 

Told  of  Death's  latest,  firmest  grasp ; 

When,  not  like  one  who  courts  repose, 

But  tossing  wild  with  fearful  throes, 

And  uttering  shrieks  at  each  new  pang 

Whose  echoes  through  the  mansion  rang, — 

When  thus,  to  the  worst  form  of  death, 

The  boy  had  yielded  up  his  breath, 

Had  they  not  seen  him  torn  away, 

Still  clinging  to  the  lifeless  clay ; 

And  heard  the  accents  of  despair 

Which  told  his  all  had  perished  there  ? 

Yes,  the  sad  story  of  his  woe 

Has  caused  full  many  a  tear  to  flow; 


19 

And  gossips  love  to  tell  the  tale 

When  winter's  evening  shades  prevail, 

And  prove  an  unacknowledged  joy 

To  find  that  wealth  has  its  alloy, 

And  e'en  the  lordly  and  the  great 

Must  share  the  universal  fate : — 

"  But  time,"  the  unthinking  world  would  say, 

"Long  time  since  then  has  passed  away; 

"And  time  can  minister  relief 

"  To  souls  most  bowed  by  weight  of  grief." 

True ;  the  deep  wound  upon  his  heart 

Did  lose  its  pungency  of  smart : 

True;  he  could  join  the  manly  sport, 

Frequent  new  scenes,  appear  at  court : 

Yet,  when  among  gay  revellers  found, 

While  glass  and  goblet  passed  around, 

And  the  loud  laugh  and  jovial  song 

Strove  which  should  most  the  mirth  prolong ; 

Then  would  there  oft  unbidden  rise 

Hot  scalding  tears  and  deep-drawn  sighs, 

As  some  unlocked  for,  trivial  thing 

Waked  the  vibrations  of  that  string, 

Whose  deeply  melancholy  tone 

Breathed  but  one  thought, — "My  son,  my  son!" 

But  away,  away  with  desponding  care, 

With  this  pale-faced  grief,  and  wan  despair! 

Lo,  Mercy  descends  to  earth  again; 

And  with  her  Hope's  gay  and  laughing  train ! 

And  see  how  she  bears  with  encircling  arm 

A  babe  whose  beauty  grim  Death  might  charm ! 


20 

And  again,  with  that  well-remembered  joy. 
The  father  embraces  an  infant  boy, 
Whose  sunny  smile,  by  no  shadow  crossed, 
Can  more  than  replace  the  idol  lost. 

Then  spread  ye  the  banquet's  ample  store ! 
Spread  it  for  rich,  and  spread  it  for  poor ! 
Bid  the  young  and  old,  with  merry  heart, 
Hasten  to  bear  in  the  feast  their  part ! 
Nor  fear  ye  though  Midnight  stoop  to  hear 
Your  song  of  joy  and  your  hearty  cheer. 

This  day  we  consecrate  to  Heaven 

The  blessing  so  benignly  given. 

This  day  we  house  him  in  the  ark ; 

This  day  we  seal  him  with  the  mark 

Worn  by  the  "sacramental  host,"— 

The  proud  world's  scorn,  the  good  man's  boast! 

Well  then  may  heaven  itself  rejoice ! 

Well  may  the  earth  lift  up  her  voice ! 

Well  may  the  Church  aloud  proclaim 

"  The  second  birth,"  "  the  Christian  name." 

But  see  yon  modest  dwelling,  dressed 
With  care  and  skill  beyond  the  rest ; 
As  if  its  inmates  strove  to  show 
A  more  than  sympathetic  glow 
Within  their  happy  bosoms  burned, 
For  blessings  which  themselves  concerned. 
Its  quiet  aspect,  placed  between 
The  proudly  great  and  poorly  mean, 


21 


Tells  not  indeed  of  gorgeous  wealth, 
But  of  peace,  competence,  and  health. 
The  close  cut  hedge,  the  gay  parterre, 
No  mercenary  hand  declare. — ' 
The  orchard's  promising  increase, 
The  dog  reclining  at  his  ease, 
The  bird  that  struts  his  life  away, 
Proud  his  gay  plumage  to  display; — 
All,  all  proclaim  that  easy  state 
Envied  alike  by  small  and  great, 
That  golden  mediocrity, 
From  pining  as  from  surfeit  free. 

Within  that  home  of  peace  reside' 
A  lover  and  his  happy  bride ; 
So  closely  knit  in  love's  own  bond, 
So  free  from  every  thought  beyond, 
That  but  one  spirit  seems  to  dwell 
In  both  their  frames,  one  magic  spell 
With  mystic  influence  to  control 
Each  thought  and  feeling  of  each  soul. 

Perchance,  indeed,  to  one  who  knew 

To  search  man's  nature  through  and  through, 

There  might  appear  upon  his  side 

Too  much  of  that  stern  manly  pride, 

That  walks  the  earth  with  stately  tread 

And  lifts  sublime  to  heaven  its  head, 

As  if,  in  conscience  of  its  worth, 

It  scorned  the  meaner  things  of  earth : — 

That  feels  no  pity  for  the  price 

Which,  soon  or  late,  men  pay  for  vice  5 


22 


That  joys,  as  Mercy  doth,  to  bless, 
And  weeps  at  innocent  distress; 
But  cannot,  like  that  angel,  stoop 
To  lift  a  prostrate  sinner  up.  —  r- 


Perchance  her  soul  too  feebly  hung 
Upon  his  strength  ;  too  closely  clung 
For  safety  to  his  sheltering  arm, 
On  danger's  most  remote  alarm. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  self-same  blow 
That  struck  at  him  must  lay  her  low; 
As  if  even  God  Himself  she  feared, 
Chiefly  because  he  too  revered. 
Yet  blame  them  not;  'twas  but  the  excess 
Of  virtue  dimmed  their  loveliness  ; 
And  e'en  the  sun  is  said  to  show 
Some  dark  spots  'midst  his  burning  glow. 

Not  yet  twelve  months  had  rolled  away 
Since  dawned  the  memorable  day 
That  placed  the  bridegroom  by  the  side 
Of  his  own  chosen,  cherished  bride, 
When  neighbors  crowded  round  to  see 
The  first  sweet  smile  of  infancy, 
And  on  the  unconscious  lips  to  press 
The  gentle  kiss  of  tenderness. 

Poor  fragile  flower  !  they  little  knew 
Who  o'er  it  bent  their  earnest  view, 
What  gathering  tempests  would  arise 

In  after  years  to  cloud  its  skies  ; 

row  no'i  v  [O'.r-  ,ibiityf 


23 


Till  the  wild  fury  of  the  storm 

Burst  on  its  frail  and  shrinking  form. — 

'Twas  on  the  day,  when  first  with  joy 
Yon  proud  lord  had  embraced  his  boy, 
That  first  his  humbler  tenant  prest 
An  infant  daughter  to  his  breast; 
And  willed  that  lord  that  the  same  hour 
Should  see  each  consecrated  flower 
Transferred  from  nature's  barren  waste, 
And,  by  the  rite  baptismal,  placed 
Within  the  Church's  hallowed  bounds, — 
Those  fertile,  sheltered,  happy  grounds, — 
Where  each  young  tree  of  Paradise 
Blooms  ere  transplanted  to  the  skies. 

Ye  who  would  contemplate  a  sight 

Which  angels  gaze  on  with  delight,'] 

And  more  than  angels  from  above 

Deign  to  rejoice  in  and  approve; — 

Look  on  that  consecrated  place ! 

Look  on  that  minister  of  grace ! 

Look  on  that  pure  baptismal  stream 

All  radiant  with  a  kindly  beam 

From  Mercy's  own  benignant  eyes, 

As  wide  she  opens  Paradise ! 

Look  on  those  infants,  for  whose  fate 

Heaven,  Earth,  and  Hell  expectant  wait !— ^ 

Angels — to  guard  their  course  through  life, 

And  shield  them  'mid  its  dreadful  strife : 


24 


Or  waft  them  swift  from  earth  away 
To  regions  of  unclouded  day. 
Parents — whose  every  hope,  and  fear, 
And  joy,  and  grief  are  centred  there : 
Demons —  to  blast  their  opening  bloom 
With  sin's  dark  stain,  and  Hell's  deep  gloom; 
To  make  their  ruined  souls  a  curse, 
A  plague-spot  in  the  universe, 
Till  God,  in  mercy  to  the  race, 
Bid  Death  the  damning  blot  efface. 

Oh !  if  we  welcome  with  applause 

The  man  who  in  a  righteous  cause 

Seizes  on  sword,  and  spear,  and  shield, 

And  rushes  to  the  battle-field, 

Careless  though  'mid  the  heaps  of  slain 

His  own  unburied  corpse  remain : — 

If  with  delight  we  view  the  maid, 

Now  first  in  nuptial  garb  arrayed, 

Who  speaks  the  irrevocable  word 

That  gives  her  to  her  bosom's  lord : — 

Say,  shall  not  equal  praise  be  given 

To  him  who  wields  the  sword  of  heaven; 

And  by  the  sacred  sign  he  bears 

Upon  his  brow  true  fealty  swears 

In  life,  in  death,  through  gain,  through  loss, 

To  him  who  triumphed  on  the  cross? — 

Say,  shall  not  equal  joys  arise 

For  souls  new-wedded  to  the  skies, 

Who  spotless  as  the  robes  they  wear, 

In  virgin  innocence  appear, 


25 


To  be  presented  to  their  lord, 

The  Church's  husband, — and  her  God  ! 

But  ah !  what  prescient  eye  can  scan 
The  distant  future  of  the  man, 
On  whose  unconscious  baby  brow 
The  sacred  drops  are  falling  now  ? 
Shall  the  wide  world  resound  his  fame? 
Or  echo  with  his  guilt  and  shame? 
Or  shall  he,  like  some  drifting  bark, 
Float  o'er  life's  sea,  nor  leave  one  mark, 
One  single  furrow  on  the  wave 
Betwixt  his  baptism  and  his  grave? 

Perchance  that  little  rosy  lip 
In  after  years  may  fondly  sip 
The  cup  of  pleasurable  sin, 
And,  with  it,  drink  damnation  in. 
Perchance  that  tiny  hand  we  see 
Feebly  stretched  out  towards  vacancy, 
May  one  day  grasp  the  reeking  blade 
With  human  slaughter  crimson  made, 
And  fling  the  devastating  brand 
O'er  many  a  fair  and  smiling  land.  "'• 
That  voice,  now  uttering  fretful  cries, 
In  burning  eloquence  may  rise 
To  thrill  a  nation  with  its  tone, 
Or  hurl  a  monarch  from  his  throne : 
Or  (dreadful  thought!)  may  utter  loud, 
'Midst  impious  folly's  laughing  crowd, 
3 


26 

The  bold  defiance  'gainst  High  Heaven, 
Nor  breathe  one  prayer  to  be  forgiven. 
That  infant  form  may  rise  to  wear 
A  weight  of  glory  even  here  :  — 
Amid  its  generation  stand 
Diffusing  blessings  round  the  land  ; 
Chase,  like  the  glorious  orb  of  day, 
The  mists  of  sin  and  grief  away, 
And  cause  the  admiring  world  to  see 
How  bright  a  Christian's  course  may  be  ; 
By  bad  men  feared,  by  good  men  loved, 
By  conscience  and  by  God  approved:  — 
May,  after  death,  still  higher  rise, 
There,  there,  where  angels  walk  the  skies; 
And  view  with  unbeclouded  sight 
The  effulgence  of  the  Eternal  Light. 

That  infant  form  may  prostrate  lie 
In  sloth,  in  vice,  in  infamy  ; 
Spread,  with  its  pestilential  breath, 
That  worst  of  plagues,  a  moral  death  ;  — 
Be  praised  by  none,  by  none  be  loved, 
By  conscience  hourly  be  reproved; 
Feel  in  its  inmost  soul  the  dread 
Of  vengeance  falling  on  its  head; 
And  sink  at  last  (how  darkly  deep!) 
Down,  down  for  ever;  still  to  weep, 
Long  as  the  weary  ages  roll, 
The  ruin  of  a  deathless  soul.  — 


«bv/J!»  8B«& 


27 

The  rites  performed,  with  serious  thought  imprest. 
Sober,  not  sad,  returns  each  welcome  guest 
To  share  the  bounties  of  his  generous  lord, 
And  meet  around  his  hospitable  board. 
All  crown  the  goblet,  the  sweet  nectar  quaff, 
Sing  the  glad  song,  and  raise  the  cheerful  laugh; 
Then  join  the  dance,  and,  to  the  varied  sound 
Of  string  and  pipe,  tread  the  fantastic  round; 
Not  anxious  for  display,  but  only  bent 
To  give  expression  to  their  hearts^ content; — 
And  some,  'tis  said,  whose  dancing  days  were  o'er, 
On  this  occasion  danced  again  once  more. 
Light  was  each  foot,  and  sparkled  every  eye, 
Swift  flew  the  merry  hours  unheeded  by,  Jj  jjuA 
Till, -as  the  village  clock,  with  solemn  tone, 
Warned  that  another  fleeting  day  was  gone, 
Back  to  the  banquet-hall  the  guests  repair, 
Once  more  its  hospitalities  to  share. 
The  banquet  o'er,  uprose  the  man  of  God, 
And  spread  his  suppliant  hands  to  heaven  abroad, 
And,  with  a  voice  of  dignity  and  love, 
Invoked  on  all  a  blessing  from  above. 

Just  then,  a  stranger  through  the  portal  slowly  en- 
tered, 

On  whose  gaunt  form  the  eyes  of  each  with  awe 
were  centered. 

In  gloomy  contrast  with  this  scene  of  chastened 
gladness, 

Her  every  look  and  feature  wore  a  hue  of  sadness. 


28 

The  crimson  stream  of  life  had  lost  its  power  to 

redden 
Her  hollow  cheek;    her   eye  was   lustreless   and 

leaden. 
Onward  she  moved,  and  seemed  it  that  she  little 

heeded 

How  each,  with  look  of  fear  as  she  advanced,  re- 
ceded. 
Onward   she  moved   until   she   stood   beside   the 

father, 
The  mansion's  noble  lord,  then  seemed  her  soul  to 

gather 

New  fervency  of  passion,  and  new  stern  decision; 
And  thus  she  spake,  and,  speaking,  smiled  as  in 

derision : — 
"  Happy  man !  While  you  can, 

Revel  in  your  joy ; 
Still  caress  And  fondly  press 

Your  pretty  baby  boy ! 
Wretched  man !  Could  you  scan 

Dark  futurity, 
You  would  say,  'Woe  worth  the  day 

Gave  that  boy  to  me ! 7 
Love  how  great!  Deadly  hate  ! 

Both  their  forms  I  see. — 
' Spare  my  life!7 — 'Nay,  whet  the  knife; 
Vengeance  calls  for  thee.'  " 

Onward  she  moved,  nor  stayed  until  she  stood 
Beside  that  other  father;  while  his  blood 
Grew  cold  within  his  veins,  and  paled  his  cheek 
As  waited  he  the  words  she  yet  might  speak. 


29 

But  see  how  changed  a  form  she  bears  ! 
Mark  how  her  eyes  are  filled  with  tears ! 
And  list,  with  what  a  plaintive  moan 
She  chants  these  words  in  softened  tone : — 

"There  was  a  flower  In  Beauty's  bower, 

Lovely  in  form  and  hue ; 
Now  dimly  seen  Through  foliage  green, 

Now  hidden  from  the  view. 
In  evil  hour  About  that  flower 

A  wily  serpent  coiled, 
Whose  poisonous  breath  With  taint  of  death 

Its  virgin  beauties  soiled. — 

"  I  saw  from  far  A  twinkling  star 

Beam  in  the  evening  sky ; 
Whose  timid  light,  So  meekly  bright, 

Shrunk  from  the  gazing  eye. 
There  came  a  cloud  With  gloom  to  enshroud 

That  unobtrusive  ray; 
And,  quenched  in  night,  The  modest  light 

Passed  from  the  scene  away. — 

"0  guard  from  harms  Those  opening  charms, 

So  transient  and  so  dear; 
For  storms  will  rise  In  summer  skies, 

And  there's  a  serpent  near !  "— 

Onward  she  moved  to  the  grave  priest;  and,  by  him 
standing, 

Said,  with  an  attitude  and  tone  of  voice  com- 
manding, 


30 

As  felfc  she  that  prophetic  words  to  her  were  given, 
And    that   she   too   could   claim    authority   from 
heaven  :  — 


''  Stretched  there  a  sea  All  brilliantly  ; 

I  stood  upon  its  shore  ; 
And  as  I  stood  It  turned  to  blood, 

Deep  crimson  human  gore. 
^^^^—~--  —  ~^^>7fT^7Tf7rrolT  a  ol>  \mr>.  wo  H  I  • 
"And  forth  there  came,  In  lurid  flame, 

The  hideous  form  of  DEATH  ; 
With  visage  thin,  And  ghastly  grin, 

And  hot  devouring  breath. 

"  Then  spake  the  Dead  These  words  of  dread 

In  deep  sepulchral  tone  ;  — 
'  The  hour  is  come,  The  hour  of  doom, 

The  hour  that's  all  mine  own. 

Li;  '  i  &  90/#3  010  AT 

<«A  feast  I'll  have  In  the  silent  grave, 

Such  as  the  world  ne'er  saw; 
And  the  rich  and  great  In  the  Church  and  State 

To  my  slaughterhouse  111  draw. 

O  •  • 

"  '  See  my  table  spread  With  the  mighty  dead, 

And  with  young  and  lusty  forms  ! 
And  a  crowned  king  Shall  his  carcass  bring 

To  the  banquet  of  the  worms. 

OTjJTS  9f[)  '  f/.fHVM'Q 

"  (  See  a  woman's  hand  Uplift  the  brand 
That  kindles  the  murderous  strife  ! 


31 

And,  lo,  at  her  word  They  unsheathe  the  sword, 
And  whet  the  avenging  knife! 

" '  But,  ha !  she  shrinks,  And  her  right  arm  sinks 

As  though  paralysed  its  force : — 
Who,  who  could  scare  Thee,  my  priestess  fair, 

And  arrest  thy  glorious  course  ? 

fcaiq  v  itmlo  iuiA 

"' Seize  the  recreant!  bind  her  fast! 

Shroud  her  soul  in  midnight  gloom ! 
Then,  when  twice  ten  years  are  passed, 

Fling  her  to  the  tomb!'  — 

"With  the   lightning's   flash,  And   the  thunder's 
crash 

And  the  ravings  of  the  storm, 
And  a  demon's  howl,  And  a  darkening  scowl, 

Down  went  that  spectral  form." — 


The  feast  is  o'er;  the  lights  are  out; 
Hushed  is  the  laugh,  the  song,  the  shout; 
The  guests  are  parted,  none  remain 
Of  all  that  gay,  that  startled  train  : — 
But  few,  I  ween,  their  eyes  could  close 
That  night  in  undisturbed  repose : 
For  if,  outworn,  awhile  they  slept, 
Soon  dreadful  visions  o'er  them  crept, 
Of  grinning  skulls,  and  seas  of  blood, 
And  spectral  forms  that  round  them  stood ; 


32 

And  starting  from  their  sleep,  they  cry, 
"  Save  us,  0  God,  the  doom  is  nigh !" 

And  there  were  two,  who  vainly  strove 
The  burden  from  their  hearts  to  move 
Of  half  allowed,  half  scouted  dread, 
There  lying  like  a  weight  of  lead. 
And  chief  the  man  who  fondly  prest 
The  infant  Theroigne  to  his  breast, 
And  heard,  still  echoing  to  his  thought, 
These  words  with  fear  and  caution  fraught; — 

"  0  guard  from  harms  Those  opening  charms, 

So  transient  and  so  dear; 
For  storms  will  rise  In  summer  skies, 

And  there's  a  serpent  near ! " 


END    OF    PART    I. 


THEROWNE  DE  MERICOURT; 


mmtt, 


IN    FIVE    PARTS, 


nr 


LOUIS    S.    D.    REES 


PART  II. 


WILLIS   P.    HAZARD, 

178  CITESNUT  STREET. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

LOUIS  S.  D.  REES.. 

in  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in 
and  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


INQUIRER  BOOK  PRESS,  57  SOUTH  THIRD  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA. 


TO  SQUIRE    LITTELL,   M,  D, 


SIR, 

It  is  now  about  five  or  six  years  since  I  was 
placed  under  your  professional  care,  for  a  complaint 
which  threatened  to  terminate  in  blindness. 

Certain  of  receiving  no  pecuniary  recompence, 
and  uncertain  of  meeting  with  even  the  poor  return 
of  gratitude,  you  nevertheless  watched  over  my 
case  with  all  that  skill  for  which  you  are  so  justly 
renowned,  and  with  all  that  kindly  solicitude, 
which  only  true  Christian  principle  could  inspire : 
and  it  is  to  you  (under  God)  that  I  am  indebted  for 
the  ability  to  write  the  following  lines  with  my 
own  hand,  and  to  read  them  with  my  own  eyes. 

I  gladly  avail  myself,  therefore,  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  expressing  thus  publicly  my  sense  of  the 
obligation  under  which  you  have  laid  me,  by  de- 
dicating to  you  this  Second  Part  of  a  "  Romance," 
which,  whatever  may  be  its  defects,  is  endeared  to 
me  by  the  subject  of  which  it  treats,  and  the  circum- 
stances under  which  it  originated. 
I  am,  Sir, 

With  much  respect  and  gratitude, 
Your  very  obedient  servant, 

Louis  S.  D.  REES. 


iis*  3il;' 


THEROIGNE  DE  MEKICOURT. 

A  ROMANCE. 


PART    II. 

0  for  a  Seraph's  voice  to  sing 
The  sceptre  of  that  hoary  king, 
Whose  wide  dominion  spreads  abroad 
O'er  all  but  the  Eternal  God ! 
Far  as  the  flaming  walls  extend, 
That  mark  Creation's  utmost  end ; 
Deep  as  the  deepest  pit  of  Hell, 
(That  central  gloom  where  traitors  dwell;) 
High  as  the  place  at  God's  right  hand, 
Where  Gabriel  claims  to  take  his  stand; — 
So  far,  so  wide,  so  high,  so  deep 
Extends  his  empire's  ample  sweep. 

Ask  ye  the  story  of  his  birth? — 
Go,  seek  it  in  the  caves  of  earth : 
There,  by  the  aid  of  science,  scan 
(Long  ere  the  human  race  began) 
The  hidden  geologic  page, 
Whose  records  tell,  from  age  to  age, 

1*  |*«U 


6 


Not  when  and  where  some  hero  dwelt, 

Whose  influence  through  the  world  was  felt;— 

Felt?  aye,  and  heard,  in  captive  moans, 

In  shrieks  of  pain,  in  dying  groans ; — 

Not  how  a  nation  rose  to  power, 

Ruled  o'er  mankind  for  one  short  hour, 

Then  sunk  beneath  the  common  lot, 

Enervated, — destroyed, — forgot; — 

But  how,  through  slowly  rolling  years, 

A  new  race  comes,  then  disappears; 

How  here  the  liquid  plains  extend, 

There  mountains  from  the  depths  ascend ; 

How  scales  thrown  off  from  tiny  worms 

Slow  rose  into  gigantic  forms, 

That  stand,  and  shall  through  ages  stand, 

Time's  monuments  in  many  a  land ; 

How  Nature,  as  in  sportive  mood, 

Hath  ofttimes  changed  the  field,  the  flood; 

Hath  spread  a  continent  abroad 

Where  erst  the  waves  of  ocean  roared, 

Or  sunk  the  smiling  land  again 

Deep  down,  beneath  the  barren  main  :  * 

How  through  this  restless  roll  of  years, 

The  same  All-glorious  God  appears 

Seated  upon  his  awful  throne, 

Serene,  eternal,  and  alone : — 

Go,  scan  that  page;  'tis  all  in  vain; 

There  shall  ye  see,  indeed,  Time's  reign, 

And,  as  ye  upward  strive  to  mount 

The  scale  of  ages  past  all  count, 


Still  shall  ye  find,  on  either  hand, 
The  tokens  of  his  being  stand; 
But  when  he  first  began  to  be, 
Is  wrapped  in  hopeless  mystery. 

Would  ye  foreknow  the  distant  hour 
When  Time  himself  shall  lose  his  power? 
Shall  lay  his  crown  and  sceptre  by, 
And,  like  his  slaughtered  myriads,  die? — 
Seek  not  that  mystery  to  explore ; 
Know,  "Time  is  mortal;" — ask  no  more. 
His  doomsday  is  beyond  the  ken 
Alike  of  angels  and  of  men ; 
And  the  last  trumpet's  voice  ^ilone 
Shall  make  the  dreadful  secret  known. 

All-glorious  King!  thy  banner  flies 

Outstretched  upon  the  starry  skies; 

The  sun,  proud  sovereign  of  the  day, 

Holds  forth  a  torch  to  light  thy  way; 

The  comet's  wild  and  rapid  sweep 

Is  but  thy  slow  and  measured  step; 

The  music  of  the  distant  spheres 

Is  waked  to  please  thy  royal  ears; 

And  all  things  great,  and  good,  and  fair 

Thy  will  obey,  thy  power  declare. 

And  when  thy  latest  hour  is  come, 

Shall  it  not  bring  Creation's  doom? 

Shall  not  a  sympathising  world 

Howl  when  thou  from  thy  throne  art  hurled  ? 


8 


And  falling  stars,  and  darkened  sun, 
Mourn  to  be  told  thy  race  is  run  ? 
Shall  not  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
One  foot  on  sea,  and  one  on  land, 
And  lift  his  hand  to  heaven,  and  swear 
By  Him  who  lives  forever  there, 
That  Time's  eventful  scenes  are  o'er, 
And  Time  himself  shall  be  no  more  ? 

And  canst  thou  stoop  so  lowly  down, 
As  to  behold  with  smile  or  frown, 
Creatures  so  transient  and  so  mean, 
As  we,  who  crawl  this  earthly  scene? 
Yes,  'tis  on  earth  thy  power  is  shown; 
'Tis  here  thy  mightiest  works  are  known : 
Angels  beneath  thy  reign  receive 
The  gift  of  life ;  but  angels  live 
Scarce  conscious  of  thy  feebler  sway, 
Nor  share  thy  triumph  or  decay : 
And  demons  know, (alas!  too  well,) 
That,  'whether  'neath  thy  rule  they  dwell, 
Or  trembling  thy  successor  see — 
That  last  of  kings ! — Eternity  ! 
The  worm,  the  dungeon,  and  the  flame 
Remain  unchangeably  the  same. 
Hopeless  of  good,  chained  down  to  ill, 
Still  restless,  miserable  still, 
They  dread  alike  the  avenging  rod 
Of  Time,— Eternity,— or  God! 
But  here,  on  earth,  there's  not  a  flower 
Which  does  not  feel  thy  withering  power; 


9 


There's  not  a  single  blade  of  grass 

But  trembles  as  thy  footsteps  pass ; 

While  towering  cliff's,  that  pierce  the  sky, 

Fall  prostrate  as  thou  movest  by. 

And  chiefly  man,  though  formed  to  be 

As  deathless  as  the  Deity, 

And,  througji  eternity,  to  dwell 

In  God's  own  Heaven,  or  Satan's  Hell; 

In  this  his  nonage,  like  a  child, 

The  sport  of  all  thy  fancies  wild, 

Is  made  each  day,  each  hour,  to  feel 

Time's  power  to  wound,  Time's  power  to  heal. 

And  yet,  as  weary  of  thy  reign, 

Oft  will  thou  stoop  in  sport,  and  deign 

To  act  the  wizard's  part; 
With  wand  in  hand  through  nature  range, 
And  show,  by  many  a  wondrous  change, 

Thy  skill  in  magic  art. 

Touched  by  that  wand,  the  seed  minute 
Shall  rise  into  a  tree,  whose  root 

Strikes  deep  into  the  soil; 
Or  forests  vast  shall  die  away, 
And,  after  ages  of  decay, 

Reward  the  miner's  toil. 

Touched  by  that  wand,  the  beggared  wretch, 
Changed  to  a  king,  his  rule  shall  stretch 
Wide  o'er  a  prostrate  world ; 


10 


While  thrones  which  have  for  ages  stood, 
Stained  with  the  monarch's  sacred  blood, 
Shall  to  the  dust  be  hurled. 

Touched  by  that  wand,  the  smile  of  peace, 
So  brightly  beautiful,  shall  cease, 

The  merry  laugh  be  hushed; 
And  deep-drawn  sighs  of  woe  shall  speak, 
And  lines  along  the  faded  cheek 

Shall  show  where  tears  have  gushed. 

Touched  by  that  wand,  the  festive  hall, 
Where  late,  in  revelry  and  ball, 

There  moved  a  giddy  crowd, 
Becomes  as  silent  as  the  grave; 
And  young,  and  beautiful,  and  brave . 

Are  mantled  in  a  shroud. 

But  time  itself  would  fail,  to  tell 
What  wonders,  by  his  magic  spell, 

The  wizard  Time  hath  wrought; 
Nor  countless  volumes  could  contain 
The  annals  of  his  busy  reign, 

With  good  or  evil  fraught. 

I've  felt  his  power,  I  feel  it  now; 
Beneath  its  iron  weight  I  bow, 

And  uselessly  repine :  — 
Where  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ? 
Where  is  the  social,  kindred  band, 

Once  fondly,  firmly  mine  ? 


11 


Have  I  not  seen  the  funeral  pall 

By  Time  stretched  out,  by  Time  let  fall 

O'er  those  who  gave  me  breath? 
Have  I  not  seen  full  many  a  friend 
Down,  down  into  the  grave  descend, 

The  prison-house  of  Death  ? 

E'en  now,  in  presence  of  the  King, 
Vainly  I  strive  his  power  to  sing, 

His  wonders  to  recount: 
Pale  Penury,  and  frowning  Care, 
And  spectred  Hopes,  and  stern  Despair 

Forbid  my  soul  to  mount. 

Fool !  raise  thy  window ;  look  below ; 
Behold  the  crowds  that  come  and  go 

Along  yon  busy  street : 
And  would'st  thou  lay  thy  bosom  bare, 
In  hope  from  such  as  wander  there 

With  sympathy  to  meet? 

The  toiling  race,  athirst  for  gold, 
If  of  thy  cares  and  sorrows  told, 

Would  smile  in  proud  disdain; 
And  Pleasure's  giddy  throng  would  not, 
Though  thou  should'st  starve,  and  die,  and  rot 

Feel  e'en  a  transient  pain. 

Sweet  Mericourt !  of  late  in  thee  I  found 
Rest  for  my  spirit,  wearied  with  the  sound 
Of  maniac  shrieks,  and  ravings  of  despair 
Harshly  intruding  on  the  tranquil  air; 


12 

• 

And  now  again  to  thee  with  joy  I  turn, 

For  refuge  from  the  thoughts  that  in  me  burn. 

Gladly  I  hail,  just  looming  on  my  sight, 

Though  distant  yet,  the  reverend  castle's  height: 

Gladly  I  see,  advancing  now  more  near, 

The  lordly  mansion  on  the  hill  appear : 

And  now  the  dwelling,  where  we  viewed  of  late 

The  father  brooding  o'er  his  daughter's  fate; 

And  now,  more  beautiful  than  all  the  rest, 

Those  rural  cottages,  no  longer  drest 

With  festive  wreaths,  but  rising  to  the  view 

In  their  own  modest  garb  of  virgin  hue. 

Nature  smiles  still,  as  smiled  she  on  that  day, 

Though  many  a  year  since  then  has  passed  away. 

See  there  the  hills,  as  then,  with  verdure  crowned, 

And  the  same  gorgeous  gilding  spread  around : 

See  there,  like  fairy  sprite,  the  day's  glad  beam 

Dance  on  the  surface  of  the  sparkling  stream : 

The  flocks  and  herds  still  stud  the  distant  fields, 

And  revel  on  the  sweets  their  herbage  yields ; 

While  the  same  rural  sounds  to  memory  dear, 

Glide  through  the  open  portal  of  my  ear. 

Why  all  unchanged  remains  this  lovely  spot? 
Hath  Time  his  sceptre  aud  his  wand  forgot? 
Or  hath  it  pleased  him  these  sweet  scenes  to  spare, 
In  honor  of  the  beauteous  smile  they  wear  ? 

Ah!  no;  it  is  the  summit  of  his  art 
To  leave   unchanged  the  whole,  yet  change  each 
part; 


13 

From  the  vast  fabric,  one  by  one,  to  take 

Each  stone,  each  beam,  each  brick  that  helped  to 

make 

Its  fair  proportions,  yet  to  let  it  stand 
As  if  it  bid  defiance  to  his  hand : 
To  sweep  each  individual  from  the  stage, 
Yet  let  the  race  remain  from  age  to  age. 
Those  flocks  and  herds  that  crop  the  field's  rich 

store, 

Are  not  the  same  which  met  our  gaze  before; 
Each  bleating  sheep  has,  at  the  call  of  man, 
Yielded  its  fleecy  robe,  its  life's  short  span; 
Each  sturdy  ox  that  bowed  beneath  the  yoke, 
Has  bowed  still  lower  to  the  fatal  stroke ; 
And  golden  grain,  and  tree,  and  herb,  and  flower, 
All,  all  have  felt  Time's  unresisted  power. 

Go,  wander  o'er  yon  consecrated  ground, 

With  here  a  cross,  and  there  a  grassy  mound; 

See  now  plain  prose,  and  now  aspiring  rhj^me, 

All  telling  of  the  potency  of  Time. 

Read  how  that  aged  man,  who  battled  long 

Against  his  power,  while  expectation  strong 

Still  urged  him  to  maintain  the  unequal  strife, 

Yielded  at  last  the  contest  with  his  life. 

Read  how,  yet  glorying  in  their  j^outhful  prime, 

This  son,  that  daughter  were  cut  off  by  Time. 

Read  how  the  infant,  first-born  pledge  of  love, 

Descending  like  an  angel  from  above, 

Saw  the  dread  King,  and  trembled  at  the  sight, 

Spread  its  cherubic  wings  abroad  and  took  its  flight. 


14 

You  start:  —  but  wherefore?     Know  you  not  you 

roam 

Amid  the  scenes  of  your  own  future  home  ? 
See  you  not  all  around  your  brethren  stand,  — 
Unbodied  spirits,  —  and  with  shadowy  hand 
Point  to  the  cypress  and  the  yew,  that  wave, 
In  growing  grandeur,  o'er  your  deepening  grave  ? 

Enter  yon  cottages  ;  there,  too,  you'll  see 
The  tokens  of  Time's  ceaseless  agency  : 
See  helpless  infants  changed  to  men  robust; 
See  sturdy  swains  now  tottering  o'er  the  dust; 
See  lads  and  lasses,  matrons  now  and  sires, 
With  lads  and  lasses  round  their  social  fires; 
See  Theroigne,  heroine  of  this  truthful  tale, 
Not  now  a  smiling  infant  in  yon  vale, 
But  rich  in  all  the  concentrated  grace, 

That  gives  such  lustre  to  the  woman's  face. 
8 


O  a  joyous  sight  Is  the  morning  light, 

Just  gilding  the  eastern  sky, 
When  the  night  clouds  blush,  And  away  they  rush 

From  the  day-god's  burning  eye. 
O  a  lovely  thing  Is  the  early  Spring, 

Smiles  and  tears  are  on  her  face  : 
For  she  flies  in  alarm  From  cold  Winter's  arm 

To  the  Summer's  warm  embrace. 

Yet  the  morning  ray  Is  less  gladly  gay, 

With  its  modest,  blushing  light, 
Than  the  golden  beams  Whose  effulgence  streams 

From  the  sun  at  its  noontide  height; 


15 

And  the  early  spring  Never  yet  could  bring, 

With  its  sunshine  and  its  showers, 
Such  a  deep  delight  As  the  summer  bright 

With  its  fruits  and  gorgeous  flowers. 

And  the  wayward  child,  With  her  fancies  wild, 

And  her  step  so  glad  and  free, 
Is  an  earthly  sight  That  an  angel  might 

From  the  heavens  look  down  to  see. 
Yet  shall  Time  impart  To  that  youthful  heart 

Holy  thoughts  it  knows  not  now ; 
And  his  hand  shall  throw  A  diviner  glow 

O'er  the  woman's  lovelier  brow. — 

0  for  the  men,  who  on  the  historic  page 
Still  stand,  the  wonder  of  each  passing  age, 
Skilled  to  portray  on  canvas,  or  in  stone, 
Nature's  sublime  creations  and  their  own ! 
0  for  thy  pencil,  Reynolds;  or  for  thine, 
Immortal  Lawrence ;  or,  (if  verse  of  mine 
May  pay  a  passing  tribute  to  a  name 
Destined,  perchance,  to  stand  as  high  in  fame,) 
Thine,  Richmond,  still  embalming  to  our  eye 
Benignant  Wilberforce,  and  sainted  Fry  ! 
0  for  thy  chisel,  Powers,  at  whose  touch 
The  dull  cold  marble  wakes,  to  tell  how  much 
Of  beauty  lovely  woman  may  retain, 
E'en  when  she  groans  beneath  the  oppressor's  chain  ' 
'Twould  need  your  art,  'twould  need  your  arts  com- 
bined, 
Your  skill  most  potent,  genius  most  refined, 


16 


To  set  before  our  view  a  form  and  face 
Rich  in  each  charm,  adormed  with  every  grace ; 
Where  womanhood  its  finish  had  bestowed 
On  all  that  brightly  shone,  or  warmly  glowed. 

0  why  doth  God,  perfect  in  all  His  ways, 

Take  such  delight  a  monument  to  raise 

Of  his  own  power,  then  dash  it  to  the  ground, 

And  strew  the  glittering  fragments  all  around? 

Why  doth  He  light  a  meteor  in  the  sky 

To  flash  but  for  an  instant,  and  to  die? 

Why  is  a  Samson  made  at  last  to  grind 

In  the  low  dungeon,  wretched,  weak,  and  blind  ? 

Why  is  the  infant  wrought  with  magic  art, 

And  made  so  beautiful  in  every  part, 

Placed  in  its  mother's  arms,  then  torn  away, 

And  left  to  worms  and  rottenness  a  prey? 

Why  doth  the  flower  invite  the  wondering  view 

By  graceful  symmetry,  or  gorgeous  hue ; 

Then,  nipped  by  frosts,  or  scorched  by  burning  heat. 

Fall  withered,  worthless  at  the  admirer's  feet? 

And  thou,  sweet  flower  of  Mericourt's  sweet  vale. 

Fair  as  the  lily,  and,  alas,  as  frail, 

Why  wast  thou  formed  in  nature's  finest  mould, 

Of  height  commanding,  yet  not  sternly  bold; 

Of  easy  dignity  in  step  and  mien, 

Not  fearing,  nor  desiring,  to  be  seen? 

Why  those  dark  locks  of  glossy  clustering  hair. 

Parted  on  either  side  a  brow  so  fair, 

Shading  the  lustre  of  its  pearly  white, 

Like  sable  clouds  around  the  queen  of  night  ? 


17 

Why  too  those  coral  lips? — the  ivory  hue 
Of  teeth,  from  whose  enclosure  oft  there  flew 
Sweet  sounds  melodious,  and  swift-winged  words. 
Like  warbling,  happy,  disencaged  birds  ?  * 

Why ?    But  why  vainly  would  my  pencil  try 

To  paint  such  outward  charms  as  meet  the  eye  ? 

Charms  in  which,  oft,  the  meanest  worm  that  crawls, 

Excels  the  maid  adored  in  princely  halls. 

Say  rather,  wherefore  doth  her  soul  of  fire 

Still  restless  towards  the  great,  the  good  aspire  ? 

Why  do  her  spirit's  wings  still  beat  the  air, 

In  the  sweet  labor  their  high  charge  to  bear 

Farther  and  farther  from  earth's  shades  away, 

To  heaven's  ethereal,  unbeclouded  day? 

Why  such  a  heart  so  generous  and  so  true  ? 

A  heart  where  even  Deity  might  view, 

As  in  a  mirror  guiltless  of  a  stain, 

His  own  pure  light  reflected  back  again? 

Behold  yon  eagle  in  his  lofty  flight, 

Now  soaring  far  above  the  mountain's  height ; 

See  how  he  fixes  his  unflinching  gaze 

Upon  the  burning  sun's  meridian  blaze; 

And  still  mounts  up,  as  though  he  sought  on  high 

His  dwelling-place,  his  home  in  that  bright  sky. 

But,  lo,  he  sinks !  the  too  ethereal  air 

Refuses  e'en  his  buoyant  form  to  bear; 

And  now  some  thoughtless  hand  lets  fly  the  dart 

That  wounds  his  pinions  or  assails  his  heart; 

*  Trowy  rro?  quytv  tfitos  O^OVTUY.  — Homer. 


18 

Down,  down  he  falls  to  earth;  his  plumage  stained 

With  his  own  blood,  his  lofty  flight  restrained 

Henceforth  within  some  narrow  prison-cage, 

Whose  bars  he  beats  with  ineffectual  rage ; 

Or  a  vile  carcase  rotting  on  the  ground, 

With  nought  but  worms  and  carrion-crows  around. 

And  thou  too,  The'roigne,  lovely  as  thou  art, 
Lovely  alike  in  form,  in  mind,  in  heart, 
Shalt  yet  be  seen  a  spectacle  of  woe, 
Changed,  0  how  totally !  fallen,  0  how  low ! 
Till  in  the  grave,  the  wretch's  only  rest, 
Thou  lay  thee  down,  by  shame  and  guilt  opprest ; 
Till  in  the  presence  of  the  God  above, 
Perfect  in  justice,  perfect,  too,  in  love, 
Thou  hand  the  record  in,  thy  life's  account, 
And  wait  the  word  that  bids  thee  sink  or  mount. 

What  art  thou,  but  a  hapless  victim  led 

To  slaughter,  with  gay  wreaths  about  its  head? 

What  art  thou  but  that  eagle  in  its  flight, 

Still  soaring  upwards  with  renewed  delight, 

Fixing  thy  soul's  unhesitating  gaze 

On  forms  of  splendor,  such  as  thought  can  raise, 

When,  turning  from  this  dull  depressing  earth, 

As  if  in  conscience  of  her  heavenly  birth, 

She  views  with  inward  eye  the  Good  Supreme, 

And  basks  beneath  His  vivifying  beam? 

But  thou  ere  long  shalt  sink  to  earth  again, 

Feel  life's  rude  shocks,  and  wear  its  galling  chain; 


19 

Hide  in  thy  inmost  soul  the  envenomed  dart 
Of  shame,  grief,  vengeance,  rankling  in  thy  heart ; 
Weep,  till  the  fountain  of  thy  tears  be  dry ; 
Sigh,  till  thy  bosom  lose  its  power  to  sigh ; 
Shudder,  when  wrapped  around  with  mental  gloom. 
And  long,  but  long  in  vain,  to  find  a  tomb. 


"  To  horse  and  away !  To  horse  and  away ! 

With  the  earliest  blush  of  the  morning ; 
While  the  lark  rises  high  In  the  beautiful  sky, 

To  welcome  the  light  at  its  dawning. 

"  The  lord  of  the  day  Drives  the  shadows  away, 
And  the  spirits  of  darkness  affrighted, 

Slink  back  to  the  deep,  As  he  rises  from  sleep, 
And  the  earth  by  his  presence  is  lighted. 

"  0  why  should  we  choose  In  dull  slumber  to  lose 

The  moments  so  rich  in  enjoyment, 
When  nature  awakes,  And  her  dewy  locks  shakes. 

And  goes  forth  to  her  varied  employment. 

"  I'll  not  linger  here,  While  the  gay  chanticleer 
To  his  dames  is  so  loudly  proclaiming, 

As  he  flaps  his  glad  wings  And  his  clarion  rings, 
That  the  East  with  the  daylight  is  flaming. 

"  I'll  mount  my  good  steed,  And  away  will  I  speed 
To  drink  the  fresh  air  of  the  morning; 


20 

To  view  the  fair  scene  In  its  mantle  of  green, 
And  the  dew-drops  that  mantle  adorning; 

•tf  <qfi»W 

"To  hear  the  glad  song  Of  the  feathery  throng, 
All  swelling  one  rapturous  chorus, 

Where  each  merry  voice  Seems  to  bid  us  rejoice, 
And  partake  of  the  banquet  before  us." — 

Yes,  nursed  upon  the  lap  of  wealth, 
Rich  in  youth,  energy,  and  health, 
Well  may  that  mansion's  heir  delight, 
When  Morning  climbs  the  eastern  height, 
To  mark  the  greeting  smiles  that  grace 
Awakened  Nature's  beaming  face  : 
For  sweet  it  is  to  view  the  sun, 
Ere  yet  his  course  is  well  begun, 
Turning  his  youthful,  amorous  gaze 
With  ardor  on  the  misty  haze; 
And  see  with  what  a  roseate  hue 
In  heaven  the  clouds,  on  earth  the  dew, 
Blush  as  they  meet  his  burning  eye, 
Embrace  him,  and,  embracing,  die : 
To  see,  where'er  our  foot  hath  been, 
jCach  blade  of  grass  more  freshly  green, 
As  if  our  every  cheerful  pace 
Wiped  off  some  tears  from  Nature's  face ; 
Or  leave  the  unsullied  crystal  drop 
Still  trembling  on  the  leafy  top, 
Fearful,  lest  every  passing  gust 
Should  lay  its  radiance  in  the  dust: 


21 

Sweet,  too,  on  every  side  to  view 

The  flaunting  poppy's  gaudy  hue, 

Or  daisy  couched  on  verdure  rank, 

Or  violet  blue  on  shady  bank, 

Or  wild  convolvulus,  or  rose, 

Not  reared  by  man,  but  such  as  throws 

Its  blossoms  o'er  the  scented  thorn, 

To  share  its  fragrance,  and  adorn. 

Sweet  is  the  carol  of  the  lark, 

Soaring  aloft  while  yet  'tis  dark, 

And  seeming  from  those  distant  clouds 

To  welcome  day ;  as  up  the  shrouds 

The  nimble  sailor  runs  to  seek 

For  looming  beacon,  tower,  or  peak, — 

Then  shouts  to  those  who  listening  stand, 

"Hurrah!  my  boys;  there's' land !  there's  land!" 

And  sweet,  too,  is  the  tuneless  lay 

Of  young  birds  chirping  on  the  spray; 

Wiose  merry  notes  less  liquid  rise, 

But  not  less  welcome  to  the  skies. 

Sweet  is  the  fragrance,  too,  of  morn; 

The  new-mown  hay,  the  standing  corn, 

Or  the  rich  perfume,  that  each  flower 

Yields  at  this  consecrated  hour, 

And  flings  upon  the  gale  abroad, 

For  incense  to  the  throne  of  God. 

0  could  I  strike  the  sacred  lyre 

They  struck  who  walked  unharmed  in  fire, 

Or  thine,  thou  glory  of  our  tongue, 

Whose  voice,  in  notes  seraphic,  sung 

The  wonders  of  creative  power, 

As  viewed  from  Eden's  nuptial  bower; 


22 

I'd  echo  to  the  joyous  strain 
Of  warbling  bird  and  cheerful  swain, 
And  bid  all  nature  rise  and  sing 
The  praises  of  the  Eternal  King. 

He  has  mounted  his  horse  without  sorrow  or  care; 
He  is  hasting  away  Nature's  bounty  to  share 
In  the  beautiful  scene,  and  the  genial  air, 

And  the  thousand  attractions  of  morning  ;  — 
He  shall  feel  in  his  heart,  when  he  comes  back  again. 
The  torturing  bliss,  and  the  exquisite  pain, 
(Too  intense  to  express,  too  profound  to  explain,) 

Of  love  in  its  earliest  dawning. 


0  why  doth  the  god,  so  resistless  in  power, 
Still  force  his  rude  way  to  the  innocent  flower, 
And  seize  it  so  roughly,  that  oft  in  an  hour 

It  loses  its  freshness  and  bloom  ? 
0  why  doth  he  hold  o'er  the  thoughtless  and  gay 
A  torch  that  but  lends  them  a  flickering  ray, 
Shines  on  till  their  footsteps  have  wandered  astray, 

Then  leaves  them  enshrouded  in  gloom  ? 

0  why  doth  he  mingle,  like  Chaos  of  old,  * 
The  stern  and  the  yielding,  the  fervent  and  cold, 
The  poor  with  the  wearer  of  purple  and  gold, 

The  cowardly  heart  with  the  brave? 
Why  sighs  the  rough  peasant  to  whisper  his  vow 
To  the  maid  with  a  coronet  circling  her  brow? 

*  "Corpore  in  uno  frigida  pugnabant  calidis,  &c.  —  Ovid. 


23 

And  why  does  the  monarch  in  suppliance  bow 
At  the  feet  of  his  beautiful  slave? 

Is  Love  then  a  tyrant?  and  doth  he  delight 
To  enkindle  a  flame  but  to  quench  it  in  night? 
To  raise  us  by  hope,  then  to  fling  from  its  height 

To  despondency's  gloomy  abyss  ? 
Ah !  no ;  but  he  scorns  the  distinctions  of  earth 
And  would  teach  us  that  beauty,  and  genius,  and 
worth 

Are  the  things  that,  in  peasant  or  prince,  must  give 

birth 
To  the  soul's  highest  rapture  of  bliss. 

'Tis  man,  ruthless  man,  who,  with  merciless  hand, 
Untwists  the  silk  cords  of  Love's  roseate  band, 
Dissevers  the  unions  benignantly  planned 

To  lighten  life's  burden  of  care  ; 
Nay,  seizes  remorselessly  on  the  young  heart 
That  clings  to  another  as  part  clings  to  part, 
And  rends  it  asunder  with  torturing  smart, 

Then  leaves  it  all  bleeding  and  bare. 

And  why  ? — Because  here,  gifts  of  fortune  abound, 
And  the  head  of  a  fool  with  a  diadem  is  crowned; 
There,  beauty  ungilded,  untitled  is  found; — 

And  should  not  the  wise  interfere? — 
Yet  wisdom  like  this  can  behold,  with  a  smile, 
Sweet  Innocence  wedded  to  fraudulent  Guile, 
And  the  gentle  and  pure  to  the  brutal  and  vile, 

Nor  let  fall  one  pitying  tear. 


24 

0  hard-hearted  parents  !  'twere  better  by  far 

Ye  hurled  your  poor  child  'neath  the  swift-rolling 

car, 
To  cripple  her  members,  her  features  to  mar; 

('Twould  cause  less  of  sorrow  and  sin;) 
Than  doom  her  to  linger  through  year  after  year, 
With  no  one  to  strengthen,  and  no  one  to  cheer, 
Forbidden  to  tell,  by  a  sigh  or  a  tear. 

The  grief  that  is  gnawing  within. 

But  where  is  Theroigne  ?     Doth  the  fleecy  cloud 
Of  dreamless  slumber  still  her  soul  enshroud  ? 
Or  hears  she  yet,  though  sunk  in  calm  repose, 
The  murmurs  of  that  mystic  stream  that  flows 
Around  the  intellectual  souls  whose  lofty  thought. 
Sleeping  or  waking,  with  high  things  is  fraught; — 
That  stream  of  inspiration  and  of  bliss, 
E/ising  in  other  worlds,  and  watering  this  ? 

- 

She  slumbers  not;  for  soon  as  morning  dawns 
It  is  her  wont  to  seek  the  dewy  lawns, 
Or  saunter  in  the  garden,  or  descend 
To  where  the  shepherds  on  their  flocks  attend, 
Or  lowing  herds  with  generous  bounty  yield 
The  snowy  nectar  of  the  fragrant  field, — 
Nectar,  by  art  which  Nature  only  knows, 
Extracted  from  the  simplest  herb  that  grows. 
And  some  there  are -in  flock  and  herd,  who  share 
The  blessing  of  her  own  peculiar  care : — 
The  gentle  cow  that  licks  her  well-known  hand, 
The  sheep,  though  simple,  skilled  to  understand 


The  eye  benignant,  and  the  kindly  word, 

The  soothing  stroke,  the  lap  with  dainties  stored, 

See,  too,  the  feathered  throng,  in  eager  haste 

Her  wonted  dole  of  Cereal  sweets  to  taste, 

All  gathering  round  the  threshold  where  she  stands, 

And  casts  the  grain  abroad  with  liberal  hands; 

Nor  fear  they  lest  her  kindness  should  reprove 

The  little  tokens  of  their  trusting  love; 

But  peck  her  fingers,  perch  upon  her  arm, 

Feel  her  soft  touch,  unconscious  of  alarm. 


The  youthful  lord  has  pleased  his  eye 
With  the  fair  scenes  that  round  him  lie. 
With  tossing  head,  and  flying  mane, 
His  noble  steed  has  scoured  the  plain; 
Down  the  green  slope  has  swiftly  hied, 
Or  climbed  the  rugged  mountain's  side, 
Or  through  the  woods,  with  cautious  tread, 
Has  turned  some  dubious  path  to  thread, 
Here  opening  on  a  sunny  glade, 
There  hid  by  overhanging  shade; 
Or  beat  the  turfy  road,  between 
Embroidered  banks,  or  hedge-rows  green 
And  horse  and  rider  both,  at  length, 
Would  fain  alike  recruit  their  strength 
By  short  repose  and  homely  fare, 
Such  as  may  suit  the  morning  air. 


"  See,  see,  Acacie,  right  in  view ;" — 
Well  the  proud  steed  those  accents  knew, 
3 


26 


And  pricked  his  all  but  vocal  ears, 

Pleased  at  the  cheerful  tones  he  hears  ;• 

"  See  there/'  exclaims  the  youthful  lord, 
"A  dwelling  plentifully  stored 
"With  all  that  constitutes  a  feast 
"For  hungry  man,  or  hungry  beast/7 

He  nears  the  house,  he  nears  the  gate, 
He  nears  the  crisis  of  his  fate : 
0  might  some  angel  interpose, 
Prescient  of  swift-approaching  woes, 
And  raise  a  barrier  on  his  path 
To  coming  bliss,  and  coming  wrath  I 
But  vain  the  wish  !  the  willing  steed 
Urges  his  way  with  quickened  speed, 
Like  gallant  ship,  whose  rapid  course 
O'er  boundless  oceans,  speaks  the  force 
Of  Protean  elements  changing  shape, 
And  struggling  from  man's  grasp  to  escape. 
Say  rather  like  some  hapless  boat, 
By  careless  hand  allowed  to  float 
Unchecked  along  that  narrow  stream, 
Whose  sportive  waters  little  deem, 
That  but  their  silvery  line  divides 
Two  nations  on  the  opposing  sides, 
For  real  strength  and  real  worth 
The  best,  the  mightiest  upon  earth : 
Careless, — unchecked, — afloat,  between 
Banks  all  arrayed  in  smiling  green, 
As  if  the  shriek  of  mortal  fear 
Had  never  yet  been  uttered  there ; 


27 

Though  near  at  hand  is  heard  the  splash, 
Of  rapids,  whence  the  waters  dash 
With  frenzied  ardor  towards  their  doom, — 
The  cataract's  leap, — the  whirlpool's  gloom ! 

7 

0  how  a  light  and  trivial  thing 

Is  ofttimes  found  a  train  to  bring 

Of  issues,  whose  untold  amount 

Eternity  alone  can  count; 

While  well-laid  plans,  wrought  out  with  care, 

Float  off  in  bubbles  light  as  air  ] 

0  that,  like  him  whose  lustrous  fame 

(Athene's  glory,  and  her  shame) 

Eclipses,  by  its  radiance  bright, 

Full  many  a  Christian's  flickering  light; — 

0  that,  like  him,  we,  too,  could  hear 

The  voice  of  some  kind  Genius  near, 

If  not  to  tell  what  should  be  done, 

At  least  to  warn  us  what  to  shun : 

To  point  us  to  the  latent  snare, 

And  whisper  in  our  hearts, — "  BEWARE  !" 

But  did  not  Providence  look  down 
With  warning  eye,  and  gathering  frown,? 
Did  Heaven  and  Earth  all  passive  see 
The  onward  march  of  Destiny : 
Nor  breathe  one  caution  in  his  ear; 
Nor  strike  one  spark  of  latent  fear? 
Why  doth  his  beast,  so  sure  of  foot, 
Stumble  aginst  that  gnarled  root? 


28 


What  means  that  momentary  chill, 

Which  even  now  a  frame  can  thrill, 

In  whose  young  veins  life's  crimson  tide 

Is  quickened  by  his  morning  ride  ? 

What  means  the  ill-omened  bird  of  night, 

Still  wheeling  its  untimely  flight; 

Or  the  black  raven  on  yon  gate 

Perched,  as  it  would  his  coming  wait? 

Perchance  it  were  an  idle  dream, 

Such  common  accidents  to  deem 

Emblems  to  man  of  weal  or  woe : — 

Would  this  young  lord  had  read  them  so ! 

But  no;  he  rushes  to  his  fate, 

With  buoyant  mind,  and  heart  elate; 

Nor  stops  till,  at  the  decent  porch, 

Some  unseen  Fury  lights  her  torch; 

While  mystic  bands  of  evil  Powers 

Shout,  though  unheard,  "  The  prey  is  ours !" 

And  yet  how  lovely  was  the  scene ! 

Above,  the  ethereal  arch,  serene 

Save  where  light  clouds  their  fleeces  threw, 

A  lace-fall  o'er  a  robe  of  blue  : 

Around,  in  all  her  rich  attire, 

Earth,  scarce  yet  conscious  of  the  fire 

Which  even  now  begins  to  glow 

In  yon  bright  orb,  and  soon  will  throw 

A  beam,  from  whose  meridian  heat 

Both  man  and  beast  will  fain  retreat : — 

Before  the  porch  the  noble  steed, 

True  scion  of  the  Arabian  breed, 


29 

Whose  every  muscle  seems  to  be 
Instinctive  with  life's  energy: — 
His  rider  one,  upon  whose  mien 
The  impress  of  high  birth  is  seen ; 
Whose  every  gesture  speaks  a  mind 
By  polished  intercourse  refined : — 
Within  that  porch  a  beauteous  maid, 
In  homely  morning  garb  arrayed, 
Yet  standing  like  a  form  divine, 
Erect  within  its  hallowed  shrine 5 
Or  like  some  sculptor's  masterpiece, 
Worthy  the  days  of  ancient  Greece : 
Say  rather,  like  some  angel  bright, 
Descended  from  the  realms  of  light. 
And  lingering  on  our  earth  awhile, 
To  cheer  us  with  its  radiant  smile, 

Yet  might  ye  see  upon  that  face 
Too  deep  an  intellectual  trace, 
That  darkened  shade  of  earnest  thought, 
The  mind  imparts  when  overwrought: 
Nay  more,  there  was  a  saddened  hue. 
As  if  some  cloud  of  sorrow  threw 
A  shadow  o'er  that  youthful  brow, 
And  dimmed  its  lustre  even  now.— 
Was  it  a  kind  of  herald  gloom 
Sent  forward  by  her  coming  doom?— 
Was  it  because  some  tattling  nurse 
Had  taught  her  that  prophetic  verse, 
Whose  mystic  emblems  seemed  to  bo 
Pregnant  with  fearful  destiny  ? — - 
3* 


30 


Was  it  because  awhile  she'd  dwelt 

Within  the  convent's  walls,  and  felt 

That  ecstasy  of  joy  and  woe, 

With  which  impassioned  spirits  glow, 

Who  vainly  strive  thy  heights  to  climb, 

Eternity,  while  linked  to  Time? 

Was  it  because,  e'en  there,  she  found 

It  was  not  always  hallowed  ground ; 

That  passions  vile,  or  mean,  or  fierce, 

E'en  through  a  convent's  walls  can  pierce; 

And  that  the  human  heart  and  will, 

Hooded  and  cowled,  are  human  still  ? — 

Was  it  that  memory  oft  recalled 

The  tale  which  once  her  heart  appalled : 

Of  the  young  nun,  whose  dying  groan 

Was  stifled  by  the  wall  of  stone; 

Whose  agonising  prayer  for  grace, 

'Tis  said,  still  echoes  through  the  place, 

When  Night  her  standard  has  unfurled, 

Or  storms  and  tempests  vex  the  world; 

When,  'mid  the  dungeon's  rayless  gloom 

Each  spirit,  from  its  mural  tomb, 

Repeats  the  accents  of  despair 

Wrung  from  its  heart  when  buried  there  ? — 

Or  does  she  fondly  call  to  mind 

The  sisterhood  she  left  behind  ? 

And  think  upon  the  many  there, 

Young,  ardent  like  herself,  and  fair ; 

Just  fitted  this  life  to  enjoy, 

Yet  doomed  their  every  hour  to  employ 


31 

(Doomed  by  the  irrevocable  oath) 

In  rites  whose  dull  routine  they  loathe? — 

I  wot  not:  God  alone  can  tell 

What  secret  griefs  each  bosom  swell; 

What  clouds  of  sin  and  sorrow  roll 

In  darkness  o'er  each  human  soul! 

And  can  such  a  heart  Feel  the  exquisite  smart 

Of  love,  with  its  grief  and  its  joy  ? 
And  stoop  from  its  height,  To  repel,  or  invite 

The  shafts  of  the  amorous  Boy  ? 

Go,  mischievous  child,  To  the  thoughtless  and  wild, 

The  shallow,  the  sportive,  the  gay ; 
Who  float  o'er  life's  sea,  Just  as  careless  and  free, 

As  if  Death  would  ne'er  sweep  them  awa}r : 

Or  kindle  a  flame  On  the  heart  dull  and  tame. 

And,  for  once,  from  an  altar  so  vile 
Let  an  incense  arise,  That  shall  gladden  the  skies. 

And  be  welcomed  by  gods  with  a  smile. 

Go,  beautiful  boy,  To  the  bashful  and  coy, 

Whose  head,  like  a  delicate  flower, 
Hangs  timidly  down  At  thy  smile  or  thy  frown, 

And  there  show  thy  magical  power! 

Teach  him  to  let  slip,  From  a  stammering  lip. 

The  avowal  that  costs  him  so  dear; 
Teach  her  with  a  blush,  From  his  ardor  to  rush, 

Yet  to  pause  till  again  he  draw  near.* 

*"Fugit  ad  salices,  et  se  cupit  ante  videri." — Viryil. 


32 

But  strive  not  in  vain,  With  thy  delicate  chain 

Earth's  loftier  spirits  to  bind; 
Or  to  wound  with  thy  dart  The  unsensual  heart. 

Whose  emotions  are  ruled  by  the  mind ! — 

lie  hears  me,  and  smiles;   For  he  knows  that  hi  * 

wiles 

Can  subject  any  heart  to  his  will; 
And  with  triumph  he  shows  The  long  record    of 

those 
Who,  though  wise,  have  attested  his  skill. 

See  the  Tyrian  queen,  'Mid  the  festival  scene 

Embracing  the  counterfeit  boy ! — 
Ah !  little  she  knows  The  unparalleled  woes 

That  shall  spring  from  a  transient  joy  !  * 

See  Manoah's  son,  laid  At  the  feet  of  the  maid, 
Who  is  leagued  with  his  deadliest  foes; 

He  discovers  her  guile,  But  he  views  her  soft  smile. 
And  returns  to  his  fatal  repose. 

o?> 
See  the  monarch,  whose  name  Has  been  wafted  b.y 

fame 

To  ages  and  nations  remote, 

For  the  wisdom  that  shone  From  his  ivory  throne. 
And  that  lives  in  each  stanza  he  wrote : 


"  Interdum  gremio  fovet  inscia  Dido 
Insidcat  quantus  miserse  Deus." — Virgil. 


33 

Yet  wisdom  like  his  Could  not  turn  from  the  bliss 

That  entrances  each  amorous  youth; 
And  the  deeds  of  his  age  Leave  a  stain  on  the  page. 

That  still  sullies  the  records  of  truth. 

For  Love  knows  full  well.  He  must  vary  his  spell 

With  hearts  of  a  various  mould : 
He  selects,  ere  he  shoot,  Just  the  dart  that  will  suit 

Young  and  ardent,  or  sober  and  old. 

He  can  bend,  by  his  skill,  The  most  obdurate  will. 

The  most  volatile  spirit  control; 
He  can  kindle  a  fire  Of  impassioned  desire, 

That  shall  warm  the  most  ice-benumbed  soul. 

Should  he  seek  to  entwine  Round  a  heart  such  as 
thine, 

Thou  flower  of  Mericourt's  vale, 
The  same  chains  that  bind  All  the  rest  of  mankind. 

For  once  the  vain  effort  might  fail. 

Had  the  youth  we  behold  Been  rich  only  in  gold, 
And  ennobled  by  nought  but  his  birth ; 

Had  the  tinsel  and  show  Such  poor  things  can  bestow , 
Been  sustained  by  no  genuine  worth; 

Then  might  Theroigne  have  heard,  Like  the  song 
of  a  bird, 

His  eloquence  poured  in  her  ear; 
By  its  melody  charmed,  But  as  safe  and  unharmed, 

As  if  nought  but  sweet  music  were  near: 


34 

Then  might  she  have  traced  Every  feature,  that 
graced 

A  countenance  fair  as  her  own, 
With  no  feeling  more  warm  Than  in  viewing  a  form 

Which  the  sculptor  had  carved  out  of  stone. 

But  she  thought  of  the  days,  When  his  juvenile 
praise 

Might  be  heard  at  each  cottager's  door, 
As  the  generous  youth,  Full  of  ardor  and  truth, 

And  the  friend  of  the  friendless  and  poor. 

She  remembers  the  time,  When,  with  her,  he  would 

climb 

The  pathway  that  leads  up  yon  hill, 
Where  the  ruinous  height,  Which  was  then  their 

delight, 
Looks  loftily  down  on  them  still: 

••<  -nil'M  MliT 

When   together    they'd    stray,    Through  the    long 

summer  day, 

In  the  dark  wood,  or  o'er  the  green  field; 
While  each  trifle  had  power,    In  youth's  fanciful 

hour, 
Some  romantic  adventure  to  yield. 

She  remembers  the  arm,  Which,  on  slightest  alarm. 

Started  forth  to  assist  or  defend; 
And  the  well-deserved  name,  Which  the  proud  boy 
would  claim, 

Of  her  faithful,  unchangeable  friend. 


35 

True,  there  were  some  who  smiled  to  see 

His  condescending  courtesy; 

And  wondered  that  the  lordly  boy 

Should  thus  his  vacant  hours  employ 

On  one,  whom  the  decrees  of  fate 

Had  plaoed  so  far  beneath  his  state. 

True,  there  were  some,  whose  cautious  fear 

Whispered  in  either  parent's  ear 

Dark  hints  of  danger,  distant  yet, 

When  hearts  that  now  so  fondly  met, 

Though  passionless,  might  feel  at  length, 

In  all  its  unresisted  strength 

That  hidden  fire,  which  burns  and  glows 

Most  fiercely,  where  the  fates  oppose : — - 

Lest  he,  in  some  unguarded  hour, 

Should  yield  to  Love's  all-conquering  power,  ' 

And,  stooping  from  his  high  estate, 

Wed  him  with  one  nor  rich  nor  great : — - 

Lest  she,  like  many  a  hapless  maid, 

Courted  and  won — enjoyed — betrayed — 

Might  thus  behold  those  clouds  arise, 

Whose  darkening  gloom  should  veil  her  skies; 

Might  find  in  him  that  serpent  foe 

Destined  to  lay  her  beauties  low. 

But  little  recked  that  haughty  lord 
Of  evils  in  the  future  stored ; 
Little  he  cared  to  check  the  boy 
In  whom  was  centred  all  his  joy, 
Or,  by  one  harsh  reproof,  to  raise 
A  shadow  o'er  his  early  days. 


36 


What  though  his  youthful  breast  should  prove 

The  seat  of  an  enthusiast's  love  ; 

And  blindly,  wildly,  madly  burn 

With  passion's  fire?     Soon  would  he  learn, 

That  ample  wealth  and  lordly  birth 

Wed  not  alone  with  simple  worth : — . 

That  hearts  are  baubles,  empty  toys, 

Just  fit,  with  all  their  griefs  and  joys, 

To  deck  the  altar  of  the  god, 

Who  rules  mankind  with  iron  rod. 

Nor  Theroigne's  parents  saw  from  far, 
Gathering  about  their  idol-star, 
The  darkness  that  would  quench  its  light 
In  gloom  more  deep  than  tenfold  night: 
Nay;  saw  they  with  a  secret  pride 
The  youthful  pair,  as,  side  by  side, 
They  issued  from  the  green  wood's  shade, 
Or  through  the  fields  together  strayed. 
And  who  shall  say  that  ne'er  there  stole 
Into  that  father's  anxious  soul, 
The  half-formed  wish,  the  fond  desire, 
The  trembling  hope,  that  would  aspire 
To  see  his  daughter  rise,  and  stand 
Among  the  proud  ones  of  the  land? 
And  who  shall  say  that  mother's  heart 
Ne'er  felt  the  agonising  smart 
Of  undefined  foreboding  dread, 
Lest,  by  some  ignis  fatuus  led, 
Her  pure  unsullied  child  might  live 
In  darkness  o'er  vain  hopes  to  grieve; 


Or,  sunk,  degraded,  and  betrayed, 

A  poor  polluted  outcast  made, 

Might  curse  the  day  that  gave  her  breath, 

And  rush  to  an  unbidden  death? 

But  vain  those  hopes,  as  vain  those  fears ; 
Swiftly  depart  the  rolling  years ; 
And  childhood  with  its  guileless  truth, 
And  ardent,  but  incautious,  youth 
With  both  are  past,  nor  either  glows 
With  warmer  fires  than  friendship  knows. 
Nay  more;  in  devious  paths  they  moved 
And  all  the  power  of  absence  proved, 
To  extinguish  every  kindling  thought, 
With  danger,  or  with  rapture  fraught. 
He  in  the  college,  camp,  or  court, 
Study  severe,  or  manly  sport, 
Far  from  his  early  haunts  and  friends, 
The  opening  years  of  manhood  spends. 
She  from  the  tranquil  scenes  of  home 
With  little  wish  or  power  to  roam, 
Pursues,  through  each  unvaried  day, 
Her  quiet  unobtrusive  way; 
Shielded  by  a  fond  father's  arms 
From  outward  dangers  and  alarms, 
And,  by  a  mother's  gentler  care, 
Guarded  against  each  secret  snare. 
More  late  indeed,  she  dwelt  awhile 
Within  the  convent's  cloistered  pile : 
Yet  there  the  sacred  sisterhood 
Around  her,  as  a  bulwark,  stood. 
4 


And  still,  as  year  succeeds  to  year, 
Fresh  beauties  in  her  form  appear; 
While  gathered  truths,  and  arts  refined, 
Kindle  her  soul,  adorn  her  mind. 

So  have  I  seen  the  Egyptian  flower, 
Though  suns  might  scorch,  or  tempests  lower, 
Safe  housed  within  its  crystal  home, 
Where  storm  nor  heat  unbidden  come, 
Rising  each  day  in  stately  height, 
More  freshly  green,  more  purely  white, 
As  spotless  in  its  virgin  glow 

As  the  first  fall  of  wintry  snow ! 

J  >! 

//' 
Childhood,  with  its  unvarnished  truth, 

And  ardent,  but  incautious,  youth, 

With  both  are  passed  away; 
And  now,  behold,  again  they  meet, 
Again  with  kindly  accents  greet, 

On  this  ill-fated  day. 

,/ 
I  see  around  that  beauteous  flower 

The  serpent  coiled ;  this  morning  hour 

Is  black  as  deepest  night; 
For,  lo,  the  gathering  clouds  arise, 
Whose  darkness  shall  o'erspread  the  skies, 

And  quench  that  peerless  light. 

•  r  H  *  i  V/ 

Think  not,  one  transient  interview 
Sufficed  the  friendship  to  renew 
Felt  at  an  earlier  date; 


89 

Think  not  a  heart  like  hers  would  prove 
An  unresisting  prey  to  love, 
The  willing  slave  of  fate. 

True,  there  are  streams,  whose  shallow  flow 
The  smallest  stone  you  chance  to  throw 

Will  ruffle  into  foam; 
While  mighty  rivers  sweep  along, 
Regardless  of  the  hurrying  throng 

That  o'er  their  waters  roam. 

True,  there  are  souls  with  whom  one  hour 
May  serve  to  vindicate  the  power 

Of  the  all-conquering  Boy ; 
Whom  but  a  word,  a  passing  glance, 
May  thrill  with  anguish,  or  entrance 

With  heart-transporting  joy. 

And  he,  as  now  again  he  views 

His  childhood's  friend,  at  once  renews 

His  childhood's  friendship  too : 
Nay,  feels  within  his  throbbing  heart 
The  welcome  pang,  the  pleasing  smart, 

That  childhood  never  knew. 

But  Th6roigne !  0  full  many  a  time 
Saw  she,  in  all  his  manly  prime, 

The  champion  of  her  youth ; 
And  many  a  time  his  accents  heard, 
Sweet  as  the  warblings  of  a  bird, 

And  rich  in  all  but  truth : 


40 


And  yet,  at  most,  'twas  friendship's  voice 
Bade  her  in  sympathy  rejoice 

At  aught  that  made  him  glad ; 
Or  heave  the  unconscious  deep-drawn  sigh, 
Or  raise  the  enquiring,  tearful  eye, 

When  seemed  his  spirit  sad. 

But  woman  is  but  woman  still; 

Though  proud  her  thought,  and  firm  her  will, 

Her  heart  is  still  the  same : 
And  patient,  persevering  love 
Must,  soon  or  late,  effectual  prove 

To  raise  a  kindred  flame. 

And  0,  when  once  the  unyielding  soul 
Has  yielded  to  love's-  soft  control, 

And  caught  its  kindling  light ; 
It  burns  with  an  unearthly  glow, 
Such  as  base  spirits  never  know 

So  pure,  so  warm,  so  bright ! 

And  didst  thou,  Theroigne,  didst  thou  love  ? 
Yes ;  and  thy  deep  devotion  prove, 

(As  woman  only  can,) 
By  immolation  of  thy  all, 
Obedient  to  the  imperious  call 

Of  heartless,  faithless  man. 


There  was  gloom  in  the  sun,  as  he  sunk  to  his  rest, 
'Mid  the  dark  clouds  that  curtained  his  bed  in  the 
west ; 


41 

There  is  gloom  in  those  clouds,  as  they  sullenly  roll, 
Like  a  bannered  host,  from  the  verge  to  the  pole : 
There  is  gloom  in  the  rain,  as  it  falls,  drop  by  drop, 
On  the  well-watered  vale,  or  the  thirsty  hill-top : 
There  is  gloom  in  the  wind,  that  goes  moaning  along, 
Like  the  echoes,  scarce  heard,  of  some  funeral  song : 
There  is  gloom  in  the  trees,  as  they  noiselessly  wave 
Their  spectre-like  branches  o'er  cross  and  o'er  grave, 
And  bow  to  the  gale  with  umbrageous  head, 
Like  the  plumes  on  a  hearse,  nodding  over  the  dead : 
There  is  gloom  in  each  flash  of  electrical  light 
That  luridly  glares  through  the  darkness  of  night, 
Like  glances  shot  forth  from  the  swift-rolling  eyes 
Of  the  storm-ruling  fiend  as  he  rides  through  the 

skies : 

There  is  gloom  in  the  thunder,  whose  echoes  re- 
hearse 

The  deep-muttered  tones  of  his  terrible  curse : 
All,  all  aids  to  darken  the  general  view, 
And  lends  a  fresh  gloom  to  the  night's  sombre  hue. — 

But  hark !  the  thunders  nearer  sound ; 
The  heavens  are  all  on  fire  around; 
The  wind  no  longer  softly  sighs, 
But  rushes  madly  through  the  skies 
With  horrid  shriek  or  blustering  roar; 
While  from  the  clouds  thick  torrents  pour! 
"There's  war  in  heaven:"    Seems  it  as  though 
The  Archangel  and  his  dragon  Foe, 
With  sacred,  or  with  impious  boast, 
Were  marshalling  each  his  mighty  host ! 


42 

Amid  the  raging  of  the  storm 

I  see  from  far  a  beauteous  form, 

A  maiden  by  her  lover's  side, 

His  loved  one,  not,  alas,  his  bride. 

No  greeting  friends  around  them  stand 

With  kindly  voice,  and  eye,  and  hand : — 

No  church's  consecrated  shade 

Has  echoed  to  the  vows  they  made; 

No  priest  of  the  Eternal  God 

Has  spread  his  hands  to  Heaven  abroad, 

And  breathed  his  all-prevailing  prayer 

For  blessings  on  the  wedded  pair : — 

No  father  proudly  smiled  to  see 

His  daughter's  happy  destiny; 

No  mother's  heart  has  found  relief 

In  mingled  tears  of  joy  and  grief. — 

Beneath  the  canopy  of  heaven, 

Beneath  those  clouds  by  tempest  riven ; 

Amid  the  wailings  of  the  blast, 

And  heaven's  own  tear-drops  falling  fast; — 

In  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  night, 

Their  mutual  fatal  vows  they  plight; 

Then  fly  from  home,  from  peace,  from  rest, 

By  man  unseen,  by  God  unblest! 

"i  Jutt    . 

How  could  a  maid  so  pure  as  she, 
By  art,  by  nature  formed  to  be 
The  joy  and  pride  of  him,  whoe'er 
Her  beauty  and  her  worth  might  share : — 
How  could  she  stoop  so  vilely  low, 
As  thus  a  fugitive  to  go, 


Regardless  of  each  nobler  claim, 
Regardless  of  her  own  fair  name ; 
Braving  the  world's  unpitying  scorn, 
And,  (but  for  one,)  alone,  forlorn; 
By  him,  perchance,  at  heart  despised, 
By  him,  whose  only  love  she  prized? 

And  he, — 0  if  he  truly  felt, 

As  suppliant  at  her  feet  he  knelt, 

That  boasted  flame  of  pure  desire, 

That  all  but  an  angelic  fire; 

Why  did  he  not  her  promise  claim 

To  share  his  rank,  his  wealth,  his  name ; 

And  with  him  on  the  road  of  life 

To  journey,  as  his  honored  wife  ? 

Ask  why  his  sire's  unbending  pride 

Forbade  him  an  untitled  bride ; 

And  bid  him  from  his  bosom  tear 

The  idol  he  had  cherished  there. — 

0  there  was  guilt  in  each,  in  all ; 

Yet  would  that  guilt's  damnation  fall 

Chiefly  upon  the  haughty  lord, 

Whose  proud,  irrevocable  word 

Rose  like  a  barrier,  to  divide 

The  fond  one  from  his  chosen  bride, 

Till,  leaping  o'er  with  daring  bound, 

His  blessing,  and  his  curse  he  found. 

For  her; — suffice  it  that  she  loved, 
And  thus  her  deep  devotion  proved, 
(As  woman  only  can,) 


44 


By  immolation  of  her  all, 
Obedient  to  the  imperious  call 
Of  heartless,  faithless  man. 


END    OF    PART    II. 


-/a 


A 


Part  Third  of  Theroigne  de  Me"ricourt  will  be 
published  on  July  1,  1855. 


THEKOIGNE  DE  MERICOUKT; 


IN    FIVE   PARTS, 


LOUIS    S.   D.    REES 


PART    III. 


WILLIS    P.    HAZARD, 

178  CHESNUT  STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 
LOUIS    S.    D.    REES, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylyania. 


King  &  Baird,  Printers,  Sansom  Street. 


TO  THE  HONORABLE  CHARLES  SUMNER,  U.  S.  S. 

HONORABLE  SIR, 

Allow  me,  in  testimony  of  the  admiration  I  feel  for  your  noble 
and  persevering  advocacy  of  the  cause  of  freedom,  to  dedicate  to 
you  this  Third  Part  of  a  "  Romance"  founded  on  the  history  of 
Theroigne  de  Mericourt. 

You  will,  doubtless,  find  in  the  opening  lines  many  passages 
with  which  you  do  not  sympathize,  and  some,  it  may  be,  of  which 
you  cannot  approve  ;  yet  you  will,  I  trust,  excuse  such  passages, 
for  the  sake  of  others,  in  which  I  have  endeavored  to  give  utterance 
to  the  feelings  entertained  by  yourself,  and  by  millions  of  your 
fellow-citizens,  on  a  subject  of  the  deepest  interest. 

I  am,  Hon'ble  Sir, 

Your  very  obedient  servant, 

LOUIS  S.  D.  REES. 


THEBOIGM  DE  MERICOURT. 


PART     III. 

LAND  of  my  birth  !  thy  glorious  name 

Has  kindled  many  a  poet's  flame, 

And  struck  from  many  a  minstrel's  lyre 

Flashes  of  patriotic  fire. 

How  shall  I  dare  my  glimmering  lamp  to  show, 

Where,  lit  by  thee,  such  burning  lustres  glow  ? 

Wide  o'er  the  world  from  pole  to  pole, 
As  on  the  circling  ages  roll, 
Thy  streaming  glory  shines  afar, 
Earth's  brightest,  purest,  holiest  star  : 
Star  ?     Nay,  its  sun  ;  whose  genial  ray 
Has  turned  its  darkness  into  day, 
And  shed  all  o'er  its  realms  abroad 
The  light  of  truth,  of  heaven,  of  God. 

Child  of  the  storm !  thy  home  and  rest 

Is  on  the  ocean's  heaving  breast : 

The  billows  of  the  mighty  deep, 

That  round  thy  shores  so  proudly  sweep  ; 


6 

The  winds  that  raise  their  voices  high, 

Or,  hushed  to  whispers,  softly  sigh ; — 

What  are  those  winds,  those  surging  waves  ? 

What,  but  thy  waiting,  crouching  slaves  ? 

Long  did  they  both  the  strife  maintain 

Against  thy  being  and  thy  reign ; 

And  blustering  roar,  or  madly  foam, 

Against  thy  infant  island-home  ; 

Yet,  lo  !  this  day  thy  white  cliffs  stand, 

Bulwarks  about  the  smiling  land, 

Firm  as  when  first  the  Julian  host 

In  martial  pomp  assailed  thy  coast ; 

While  thy  strong  hand,  with  tightened  rein, 

Checks  the  wild  fury  of  the  main, 

And  every  breeze  exults  to  bear 

Thy  banner  floating  on  the  air. 

Nor  warring  elements  alone 

Have  sought  to  hurl  thee  from  thy  throne ; 

But  mightier  man,  with  envious  hate, 

Restless  at  the  decrees  of  fate, 

With  futile  force,  and  impious  trust, 

Has  striven  to  lay  thee  in  the  dust. 

First  came  the  Roman  armies  forth  ; 
Then  the  wild  sea-kings  of  the  North 


Assailed  thee  with  their  pirate-band, 
And  spread  wild  havoc  through  thy  land. 
Yes  ;  and  in  this  our  later  age 
We've  seen  the  world  in  arms  engage, 
And  all  its  countless  hosts  combined 
Obedient  to  one  master  mind, 
Heady  to  give  the  fatal  blow, 
And  lay  thy  pride  and  beauty  low. 
And  did'st  thou  fall  ? — No,  no  ;  the  world 
Still  sees  thy  conquering  flag  unfurled ; 
And,  the  death-struggle  safely  past, 
Hears  thy  triumphant  trumpet's  blast. 

Rise  from  the  dead,  ye  wondrous  men, 
My  country's  boast !     0  rise  again  ; 
Revisit  this  terrestrial  sphere, 
Once  radiant  with  your  bright  career ! 

I  see  them,  as  they  move  along, 
A  mystic,  reverend,  spectral  thong : — 
Warriors,  in  garments  dyed  with  blood, 
Who  in  the  front  of  battle  stood, 
Still  shouting  with  their  latest  breath, 
"  On,  on  !  to  victory  or  death  !" — 
Kings  who  right  well  their  calling  knew, 
Its  honors,  and  its  burdens  too ; 


8 

Shepherds  and  fathers  of  the  State, 

More  loved  as  good,  than  feared  as  great : — 

Statesmen,  whose  hand  the  helm  could  guide 

Through  treacherous  shoal,  or  swelling  tide  ; 

And  keep  the  vessel  on  her  course, 

'Midst  inward  strife,  'gainst  foreign  force  : — 

The  sons  of  science,  they  who  spanned 

Even  heaven  itself,  with  giant  hand ; 

Or  wrung  from  the  reluctant  earth 

The  hidden  story  of  her  birth  ; 

Or  'stablished  man's  extended  reign 

O'er  the  firm  land,  the  boundless  main  : — 

Poets,  whose  genius  mounted  high, 

Par,  far  beyond  the  distant  sky, 

Nor  stopped  till  on  the  eternal  Light 

It  gazed  with  an  undazzled  sight ; 

Caught  from  the  lips  of  Seraphim 

The  music  of  their  rapturous  hymn, 

And  waked,  from  strings  of  earthly  tone, 

Sounds  heard  till  then  in  heaven  alone ; 

Or,  turning  thence,  with  rapid  sweep 

Plunged  in  the  dark  Tartarean  deep, 

And  sung,  in  wild  unearthly  strains, 

Its  endless  groans,  its  endless  pains  : 

Or  with  a  searching  eye  could  scan 

That  mystery,  the  heart  of  man  ; 

Reveal  its  joy,  grief,  hope  and  fear, 

Its  pride  abase,  its  sorrows  cheer. — 


9 

But  who  are  these,  whose  robes  of  white 
Shine  brighter  than  the  morning  light  ? 
About  whose  brows,  in  glittering  rays, 
The  forked  lightning  harmless  plays  ? 
Whose  harps  of  gold,  with  trembling  string 
Echo  their  voices  as  they  sing ; 
While  grateful  Kapture  from  their  eyes 
Darts  upward  to  her  native  skies  ? 
These  are  thy  Church's  joy  and  boast, 
Her  faithful,  blood-stained,  martyr  host : 
Who,  rather  than  the  truth  forsake, 
Smiled  on  the  rack,  embraced  the  stake ; 
And,  in  the  dungeon's  darkness,  found 
Heaven's  own  pure  light  diffused  around. 

• 

And  are  these  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead 
Thy  only  glories,  England  ?     Have  they  fled, 
Nor  left  one  single  lingering  star  behind,    * 
To  point  thee  out,  thou  Bethlehem  of  mankind  ? 
Perish  the  thought ! — See  how  around  thee  rise 
New  constellations  to  adorn  thy  skies ! 
Thy  bar,  thy  senate,  and  thy  pulpit  still 
With  burning  eloquence  the  soul  can  thrill ; 
And  sages,  warriors,  statesmen  still  are  found, 
The  guard  and  honor  of  thy  hallowed  ground. 

What  if  less  dazzling  be  the  stars  that  glow 
Now  in  thy  firmament  ?     The  light  they  throw 


10 

Warms  while  it  cheers,  and  lends  a  kindly  ray 
To  scenes  scarce  thought  of  at  an  earlier  day. 
Where  is  the  squalid  hut,  the  prison-cell, 
The  den  of  vice,  (that  miniature  of  hell,) 
That  does  not  see,  this  hour,  a  holy  beam 
From  Heaven  itself  athwart  its  darkness  stream ; 
While  men  like  Shaftesbury  so  nobly  stoop, 
(Nay,  rise  !)  to  lift  the  fallen  masses  up  ? 

When  was  there  ever  seen  upon  thy  throne 
One,  in  whom  all  the  virtues  brighter  shone, 
Than  shine  they  now  in  her,  whose  sovereign  sway 
Hundreds  of  millions  joyfully  obey  ? 
The  world,  'tis  true,  full  many  a  noble  queen 
Long  ere  our  own  Victoria,  has  seen  ; 
But  has  it  seen  the  daughter,  mother,  wife, 
Blameless  alike  in  every  stage  of  life, 
Softening  her  royalty's  too  dazzling  blaze 
By  each  domestic  charm,  each  female  grace  ? 

But  'tis  not  for  thy  fame  in  arts  or  arms, 

Thy  young  men's  valor,  or  thy  maidens'  charms  ; 

It  is  not  for  those  noble  ones,  who  stand 

At  once  the  pride  and  bulwark  of  thy  land  ; 

It  is  not  for  that  loved  and  honored  queen, 

In  whom  such  varied  excellence  is  seen ; — 

It  is  not  for  thy  happy  rural  homes, 

Thy  reverend  castles,  or  thy  sainted  domes ; — 


11 

'Tis  not  for  these,  0  Britain,  that  I  prove 
Most  of  a  patriot's  pride,  a  patriot's  love : — 
It  is  because  I  recognize  in  thee, 
The  only  hope  for  human  liberty; 
Because,  throughout  thy  wide-extended  reign, 
No  crouching  slave  wears  the  oppressor's  chain ; 
That  every  son  of  thine,  in  every  place, 
Whate'er  his  rank,  his  color,  or  his  race, 
Though  poor,  though  outcast,  though  degraded, 

still 

May  say  with  kings,  "  I  will  not !"  and,  "  I  will !" 
Thou  hast  thy  faults,  I  know  it,  and  I  own, 
And  they  who  love  thee  most  those  faults  bemoan  ; 
Yet  on  thy  'scutcheon,  God  be  praised !  is  not 
This  one,  this  damning,  and  this  damned  spot. 

Attend ;  I'll  paint  a  scene,  no  fancy  sketch  : — 
See  foremost  on  my  canvas  yon  poor  wretch, 
Well  housed,  well  fed,  well  clothed,  allowed  per- 
chance, 

When  toils  are  o'er,  his  banjo  and  his  dance ! 
No  anxious  boding  cares  his  soul  engage 
For  unprovided  sickness,  or  old  age ; 
Nor  doubts  he  at  the  last  to  find  a  decent  grave  ;— 
"  Who  is  the  happy  man  ?"  you  ask. — The  man's 

m    a  SLAVE! 

Now,  do  you  burn  to  share  his  favored  lot  ? 
His  blessings,  and  his  bondage  ?  I  trow  not. 


12 

Yet  he's  contented ;  knows  no  better  state ; 
And  acquiesces  in  his  servile  fate. 
Conscience  and  reason  in  his  soul  are  mute : 
He  eats,  drinks,  sleeps;  and  lives,  and  dies — a 
brute ! 


Not  so  :  upon  some  general  holiday, 

Lured  by  the  gathering  crowds,  behold  him  stray 

To  where,  with  many  a  shout  of  noisy  mirth, 

The  nation  celebrates  its  freedom's  birth. 

Awhile  the  noise  is  hushed ;  amid  the  crowd 

There  rises  one,  who  reads  in  accents  loud 

That  "  Declaration, "  which  is  held  to  be 

The  charter  of  the  people's  liberty. 

Little  his  understanding  comprehends 

Of  what  he  hears ;  yet,  to  his  heart  descends, 

Aye,  to  his  heart  of  hearts,  this  beam  of  light, 

That  each  has  his  unalienable  right ; 

And  he,  who  for  that  right  his  weapon  draws, 

May  claim  God's  blessing  on  a  righteous  cause. 

This  truth  awakes  him  from  his  long  repose; 

A  fire  new-kindled  in  his  bosom  glows ; 

And  deep-drawn  sighs  and  bitter  tears,  proclaim 

His  soul  is  melting  in  the  genial  flame. 

But  vain  his  tears,  vainly  he  looks  around ; 
For  him^no  spot  on  earth  is  Freedom's  ground. 


13 

Think  ye  the  thousands,  whom,  on  festive  days, 
He  heard  unite  in  Liberty's  sweet  praise, 
Sincerely  breathed  her  consecrated  name  ? 
Test  them; — let  this  poor  wretch  the  blessing 

claim ; 

And  will  they  in  the  generous  wish  rejoice? 
Give  him  their  aid  ?  or  cheer  him  with  their  voice  ? 
No,  tfiere's  not  one,  but,  should  he  burst  his  chain, 
Would  lend  a  hand  to  fetter  him  again : 
Not  one,  but  what  would  join  the  hue  and  cry, 
To  catch  the  slave,  or  hunt  him  till  he  die ! 

Yet  stay;  has  he  not  heard,  in  days  gone  by, 
That  far  away,  up  yonder  river,  lie 
Lands  where  the  curse  of  slavery  is  unknown, 
And  man  may  call  at  least  himself  his  own  ? 
He  has  :  and  though  a  thousand  barriers  rise, 
To  thwart  his  purpose,  yet  he  flies — he  flies ! 
O  glorious  flight !  whose  daring  and  whose  skill 
Surpass,  yea,  far  surpass  (deride  who  will,) 
The  deeds  of  many  a  hero,  many  a  king, 
Whom  patriots  boast  of,  and  whom  poets  sing. 
If  he  succeed,  he  hopes  for  no  renown  ; 
And  should  he  fail,  and  should  they  hunt  him  down, 
The  lash,  the  dungeon,  and  the  burning  brand, 
Like  vengeful  furies,  to  receive  him  stand. 
Not  one  has  he  to  give  him  friendly  aid ; 
Not  one  the  partner  of  his  secret  made ; 


14 

Alone,  unfriended,  to  the  north  he  turns, 
Cheered,  quickened  by  the  fire  that  in  him  burns. 

The  "friends  of  freedom," (honorable  crew!) 

With  noble  ardor  hasten  to  pursue ; 

His  fellow-slaves  turn  out  with  thoughtless  glee, 

Eager  to  catch  him,  or  the  sport  to  see ; 

While  bloodhounds  fierce,  with  deep  malignant 

bay, 
Scent  out  the  footsteps  of  the  human  prey. 

Good  God !  and  wilt  Thou  sit  upon  thy  throne, 
And  hear,  unheeded,  his  despairing  groan  ? 
No :  He,  who  saw  his  ancient  people  weep, 
Struck  off  their  bonds,  and,  through  the  opening 

deep, 

Led  them  triumphantly  from  shore  to  shore, 
On  paths  ne'er  trod  by  foot  of  man  before, 
Through  many  a  scorching  day,  and  dreary  night, 
Sustains,  and  guides,  and  guards  him  in  his  flight, 
Till,  at  the  last,  he  rests  from  all  his  woes 
There,  where  the  "  Pilgrim  Fathers  "  found  repose. 

And  is  he  safe  ? — Oh  yes  !  the  generous  race, 
Who  from  those  iron  men  their  lineage  trace, 
Around  him  like  a  wall  of  fire  will  be, 
Proud  to  defend  his  new-found  liberty. 

No,  no :  upon  New  England's  burning  brow 
"Ichabod,"  "Ichabod,"  is  branded  now; 


15 

Into  her  city-streets,  her  judgment  halls, 
That  loathsome  reptile,  the  slave  catcher,  crawls; 
There,  there,  before  the  astonished  face  of  day, 
Coils,  like  a  serpent,  round  his  helpless  prey ; 
While  threatening  laws,  and  martial  power  dis- 
played, 
Force  her  to  silence,  or  compel  her  aid. 

Gods  !  are  there  none,  whose  souls  indignant  rise 
At  such  an  insult  ?  none,  whose  pitying  eyes 
Shed  tears^  of  sorrow  o'er  the  wretch's  fate, 
Dragged  back  again  to  his  degraded  state  ? 

Thank  God,  there  are  :  a  remnant  yet  remains 
In  whom  right  principle,  right  feeling  reigns ; — 
A  few,  like  her,  whose  tale  of  negro  woe 
Has  caused  full  many  a  pitying  tear  to  flow ; 
A  few,  who  think  there  is  a  God  above, 
A  God  of  justice,  and  a  God  of  love ; 
And  tremble  lest  before  his  bar  they  come, 
Stained  with  the  oppressor's  guilt,  to  share  his 
doom. 

Men  such  as  these,  with  generous  passions  warm, 
Forewarn  the  freed  one  of  the  rising  storm; 
Give  him  the  well-filled  purse,  and  bid  him  flee 
No  matter  where,  so  he  may  yet  be  free : 
Anywhere,  so  the  stars  and  stripes  outspread, 
Wave  not  in  solemn  mockery  o'er  his  head ; 


16 

Anywhere  in  this  terrene  universe. 

That  does  not  vibrate  with  the  slave's  deep  curse. 

And  where  should  that  be,  0  my  country,  where, 
Save  in  the  lands  which  still  thine  empire  share  ? 
See  how  they  smile,  benignantly  serene ; 
The  only  free  soil  in  this  western  scene ; 
The  only  spot  where  every  man  may  have 
A  freeman's  homestead,  and  a  freeman's  grave ! 

And  now,  behold  him  on  that  happy  shore ! 
His  slavery,  his  flight,  his  fears  are  o'er : 
New  joys,  new  hopes,  new  principles  arise, 
Glow  at  his  heart,  and  sparkle  in  his  eyes. 
Eeason  awakes ;  and  Conscience  o'er  his  soul, 
With  Keason  waked,  asserts  her  high  control. 
The  slave  within  him  dies ;  right  self-respect 
Raises  his  drooping  head,  he  walks  erect ; 
Feels  he's  a  man,  and  trusts  at  length  to  stand 
Among  God's  freemen,  at  God's  own  right  hand. 
On  festive  days  he  joins  the  festal  throng, 
Swells  the  loud  shout,  and  sings  the  loyal  song: 

Eescued  from  Slavery, 
Safe  in  his  liberty, 

Proudly,  I  ween, 
Boasts  he  a  freeman's  joys, 
And  makes  a  merry  noise, 
Singing,  with  heart  and  voice, 

"  God  save  the  Queen  !" 


17 

These  are  thy  jewels,  England ;  the  bright  gem 
That  sparkles  in  thy  monarch's  diadem, 
That  "  Mount  of  Light"  the  matchless  Koh-i-nor, 
Though  won  by  victory  in  justest  war, 
Becomes  as  worthless  as  the  yellow  sand, 
While  trophies  such  as  these  adorn  thy  land. 

And  is  it  here  alone  such  trophies  rise  ? 
Beneath  this  western  sun,  those  northern  skies  ? 
No ;  in  the  nucleus  of  thy  wide  domain, 
Thy  island-home,  I  seek  them  not  in  vain. 
From  struggling  Europe,  struggling  to  be  free, 
Full  many  an  exile  finds  repose  in  thee. 
The  fallen  monarch,  and  the  hunted  slave, 
Alike  thy  succor  and  protection  crave : 
To  each,  to  all  thy  bounteous  hands  are  spread ; 
For  each,  for  all  thy  tears  of  pity  shed. 

0  what  a  freight  of  human  woes, 
Wafted  by  every  gale  that  blows, 

Is  landed  on  thy  shores ! 
What  tears,  from  eyes,  that  vainly  weep, 
Fall  voiceless  on  the  mighty  deep, 

That  hoarsely  round  thee  roars ! 

Nor  is  it  to  thy  shores  alone 

With  eyes  that  weep,  and  hearts  that  groan, 

The  sons  of  sorrow  haste : 

2* 


18 

Ah  no !  through  the  wide  world  they  roam, 
From  many  a  desolated  home, 
Far  o'er  the  ocean's  curling  foam, 
Far  o'er  the  desert  waste. 

And  yet  in  vain  they  strive  to  change, 
As  restless  o'er  the  earth  they  range, 

Their  nature  with  the  scene : 
The  barbed  dart  of  grief  or  crime 
Alike  in  every  place  and  time 

Kemains  deep  fixed  within.* 


Who  is  this  so  sadly  bending 

O'er  the  waves  that  round  her  break  ? 

Down  her  pallid  cheek  descending, 
Floods  of  tears  her  anguish  speak. 

Is  it  that  the  voice  of  strangers 

Harshly  grates  upon  her  ear  ? 
Or  that  untried  scenes  and  dangers 

Fill  her  soul  with  anxious  fear  ? 

Griefs  like  these  are  summer  showers, 

Transient  is  the  gloom  they  cast ; 
Her's  the  tempest  that  still  lowers, 

Even  when  its  fury's  past. 

*  Ctelura,  non  animum,  mutant,  qui  trans  mare  currant." — HORACE. 


19 

Does  she  mourn  for  friends  departed ; — 
From  the  green  earth  torn  away  ? 

Friends  once  joyous  and  light-hearted, 
Now  to  gloomy  death  a  prey  ? 

No ;  the  loved  one  who  thus  leaves  us, 

Is  but  parted  for  a  while ; 
And  the  tyrant  who  bereaves  us, 

Death  himself,  can  wear  a  smile. 

She  we  gaze  on  now,  shall  never, 
Never  know  a  brighter  day : 

Joy,  nor  peace,  nor  hope  shall  ever 
Cheer  her  with  one  kindling  ray ; 

Not  so ; — like  a  fleeting  vapor 

Life  is  vanishing  away  ; 
Like  a  flickering,  dying  taper, 

Like  the  meteor's  flashing  ray. 

Like  the  frothy,  air-blown  bubbles, 
Floating  on  a  boundless  sea  ; — 

All  its  joy,  and  all  its  troubles, 
Transient  as  itself  must  be. 

Can  this  be  Theroigne  ?     Yes,  'tis  she. 
We  saw  her  in  her  infancy, 
Sealed  with  the  sacramental  sign, 
And  sharing  in  the  rite  divine ; 


20 

"We  heard  the  joyous  strains  they  sung ; 
We  heard  the  merry  peals  that  rung ; 
We  witnessed,  in  the  lordly  hall. 
The  bounteous  feast,  the  rustic  ball ; 
And  marked  how  every  heart  was  gay 
Upon  that  festive,  holy  day : 
We  saw  her  in  her  virgin  prime, 
Just  when  the  wizard  hand  of  Time 
Had  touched  her  with  transforming  power, 
And  changed  the  bud  into  a  flower; 
Then,  when  before  our  eyes  she  stood 
In  all  the  charms  of  womanhood. 

Behold  her  now  !  how  sadly  strange  ! 
So  short  the  time  ;  so  vast  the  change  ! 
Where  is  that  dignity  of  mien  ? 
That  bearing  worthy  of  a  queen  ? 
Where  is  the  sunny  light  that  played 
O'er  every  feature  ?  while  a  shade 
Of  pensive  thought,  but  served  to  throw 
A  softness  o'er  the  radiant  glow  ? 
Gone,  gone  for  ever  :  on  that  brow 
Sorrow  and  shame  are  written  now ; 
Lilies  have  bloomed,  (and  faded  too,) 
Where  late  we  saw  the  rose's  hue ; 
And  shrinking,  bending  is  her  form, 
Like  the  tall  grain  beneath  the  storm. 


21 

What  of  it  ?     'Tis  the  tale  oft  told, 

Of  beauty,  honor,  virtue  sold, — 

Sold  ?  and  for  what  ? — the  word,  the  oath 

Of  one  prepared  to  trample  both 

Beneath  his  feet ;  perchance,  to  make, 

E'en  of  the  hearts  he'd  power  to  break, 

His  empty  boast ;  secure,  the  while, 

That  fools  and  knaves  will  hear,  and  smile. 

And  yet  there  are,  who  strive  to  burst 
(Curst  be  the  men  !  their  words  accurst  1) 
That  firm,  indissoluble  band, 
By  Heaven's  benignant  wisdom  planned, 
That  binds  in  one  the  wedded  pair, 
Life's  pleasures  and  its  pains  to  share  : 
Men,  that  would  trust  to  vain  caprice 
All  future  hope,  all  present  peace; 
And  make  the  boasted  joys  of  home 
As  transient  as  the  crested  foam. 

Think  ye  her  faithless  lover  planned, 
When  pledged  she  him  her  heart,  her  hand, 
That  foul  apostasy,  which  now 
Has  graven  anguish  on  her  brow  ? 
Think  ye  he  meant  or  feared  to  prove 
So  recreant  to  his  vows  of  love, 
That  her,  who  trusted  and  adored, 
Made  him  her  soul's  unrivalled  lord, 


22 

For  him  forsook  her  happy  home, 
Content,  with  him,  the  world  to  roam, 
His  brutal  arm  should  one  day  fling, 
An  outcast  and  degraded  thing, 
Forth  to  this  dreary  waste  of  life 
'Mid  all  its  danger,  toil,  and  strife, 
Uncheered,  unpitied,  unforgiven, 
By  men  on  earth,  or  God  in  heaven  ? 

No :  had  some  prophet,  on  that  day 
When  proud  he  bore  his  prize  away, 
With  warning  hand,  and  warning  voice 
Intruded  on  his  new-born  joys  ; 
And,  holding  up  before  his  view 
In  all  his  hideous  form  and  hue 
The  vile  seducer,  bid  him  scan 
Himself,  and  cried,  "  Thou  art  the  man  !" 
With  all  the  warmth  he  had  exclaimed 
Of  conscious  innocence  defamed, 
(Like  the  usurping  king  of  old, 
Aghast  at  his  own  deeds  foretold,) 
"  Am  I  but  a  vile  carcase,  then, 
Loathsome  alike  to  gods  and  men  ?" 

Fondly  and  deeply  had  he  loved ; 
And,  by  a  genuine  passion  moved, 
Had  boldly  launched  upon  that  sea, 
So  brightly  glad,  so  wildly  free, 


23 

Whose  sportive  waters,  as  they  dance 

In  merry  mood,  or  warmly  glance 

Responsive  to  the  amorous  beam 

Of  wanton  day,  too  smiling  seem 

To  threaten  death,  or  rude  alarms 

To  such  as  trust  their  treacherous  charms. 

See.  see  how  they  sail  With  a  prosperous  gale, 
Though  unhallowed  their  voyage  must  be ! 

Not  a  cloud  doth  arise  To  o'ershadow  their  skies, 
Or  to  darken  that  beautiful  sea. 

The  Graces  are  there  In  the  rapture  to  share, 

And  Yenus  looks  smilingly  down ; 
The  young  god  of  love  Spreads  his  pinions  above, 

To  screen  them  from  Purity's  frown. 

A  thousand   bright  isles,  Decked  with  Nature's 

own  smiles, 

Start  in  view  as  they  bound  on  their  way ; 
Whose  white  cliffs  are  seen  Kobed  in  mantles  of 

green, 
Or  with  wild-flowered  tapestry  gay. 

The  things  of  the  deep,  To  salute  them  outleap, 

And  gambol  unconscious  of  fear; 
While  the  rapturous  song  Of  the  feathery  throng, 

Is  heard  from  those  bright  islands  near. 


24 

A  perfume  is  borne,  Like  the  breath  of  the  morn, 
Or  the  fragrance  of  newly-mown  hay, 

By   the   zephyrs   that   waft   Their   adventurous 

craft, 
And  around  them  like  infancy  play. 

Why,  why  is  the  scene  So  divinely  serene  ? 

Can  the  Heavens  such  a  union  approve  ? 
No ;  the  Bright  Ones  look  down  With  a  gathering 
frown, 

And  the  gods  are  all  absent  but  Love. 

'Tis  the  dictate  of  Love  Has  impelled  them  to 
rove, 

Where  so  many  before  have  been  wrecked : 
'Tis  his  magical  power  That  has  gilded  the  hour, 

And  with  beauty  all  nature  has  decked. 

But  vain  are  his  arts.    The  delusion  departs 
At  the  touch  of  Time's  mystical  wand ; 

And  portents  of  wrath  Spread  a  gloom  o'er  their 

path, 
And  darken  the  prospect  beyond. 

What  seemed  a  glad  sun  When  their  course  was 

begun, 

Now  scorchingly  blazes  on  high  ; 
And   the  prospering  gales   That   were   swelling 

their  sails, 
Sweep  wildly  and  fitfully  by. 


25 

The  spots  of  green  land  Which  before,  on  each 

hand, 

Smiled  applause  on  their  joyous  career, 
Are  gone ;  and,  instead,  Bugged  rocks  lift  their 

head, 
And  like  menacing  monsters  appear. 

No  carolling  bird  In  its  blitheness  is  heard, 

No  fish  gambol  sportively  round ; 
But  demons  ride  past  On  the  wings  of  the  blast, 

And  with  shrieks  make  the  welkin  resound. 

'Twas  even  so  :  awhile  they  dwelt 
In  bliss  by  lovers  only  felt : 
The  past,  with  all  its  fond  regrets, 
Rich  in  the  present,  each  forgets ; 
The  future  rises  to  their  view, 
Bright  with  hope's  own  celestial  hue : 
Their  very  guilt  but  serves  to  throw 
O'er  their  stolen  joys  a  deeper  glow. 

Then  came,  to  damp  their  ardent  joys, 

Time's  chilling  hand,  and  truth's  stern  voice ; 

"  Had  he  with  proper  caution  weighed 

"  The  price  he  for  his  passion  paid  ? 

"  Could  he  for  ever  brave  the  ire 

"  Of  his  inexorable  sire  ? 

"  Were  there  not  courtly  dames  as  fair, 

"  Worthy  his  name  and  rank  to  share  ?  - 


26 

<v  i  es,  and  among  them  one,  whose  eye 

"  More  brightly  beams  when  he  is  by ; 

"  Whose  flattering  voice  and  tell-tale  cheek 

"  A  heart  not  hard  to  win  bespeak ; 

"  Though  grace  in  her,  and  real  worth, 

"  With  wealth  are  joined,  and  noble  birth; 

"  Nor  had  the  proudest  in  the  land 

"  Disdained  the  honor  of  her  hand : — 

"  And  must  he  turn  from  such  a  bride, 

"  To  keep  a  mistress  by  his  side  ? 

"  Must  he  through  life  an  exile  rove, 

"  To  prove  his  constancy  of  love  ? 

"  No ;  this  idolatry  of  truth 

"  Might  suit  an  ardent,  dreaming  youth ; 

"  But  blissful  dreams  must  pass  away 

"  Before  the  sober  light  of  day  ; 

"  And  youth's  bright  visions  must  depart, 

"  When  manhood  sways  the  mind  and  heart." 

Thoughts  such  as  these  at  first  on  tiptoe  stole 
Into  the  secret  chambers  of  his  soul, 
As,  fearing  to  be  heard  ;  then  whispered  soft 
Their  prudent  counsels ;  and,  though  silenced  oft, 
As  oft  returned,  and  still  in  tones  more  bold 
Renewed  their  pleadings,  as  his  heart  grew  cold. 
And  so,  at  length, — But  wherefore  toils  my  verse 
In  dull  detail  the  story  to  rehearse  ? 
Thousands,  like  her,  have  trusted  and  adored ; 
Thousands,  like  her,  too  late  alas,  deplored 


27 

Their  vain  prostration  at  an  empty  shrine, 
Where  faith  and  hope  had  placed  a  form  divine. 
Victims  like  her  in  countless  numbers  fall 
Each  day,  obedient  to  ambition's  call ; 
And  Mammon's  altar  bears  on  every  part 
Dark  stains  of  blood,  wrung  from  some  broken 
heart. 

Where  shall  the  helpless  outcast  turn  ? 
How  shall  she  quench  the  thoughts  that  burn 

Within  her  tortured  brain? 
What  hand  shall  timely  aid  impart  ? 
What  kindly  voice  shall  cheer  her  heart, 

And  bid  her  hope  again  ? 

On  fluttering  wing  her  trembling  prayer 
Strives  to  ascend,  and  beats  the  air 

With  unavailing  pain : 
Black,  angry  tempest-clouds  arise ; 
Fierce,  howling  blasts  sweep  through  the  skies, 

And  drive  it  back  again. 

In  vain  her  weary  spirit  strays 
O'er  the  wide  earth ;  in  vain  surveys 

Each  friend  of  former  years : — 
E'en  should  their  hearts  with  pity  melt, 
The  kindly  sympathy  they  felt, 

Could  give  but  useless  tears. 


28 

Yet  see  !  from  far  a  glimmering  light 
Shines  'mid  the  shadows  of  the  night 

With  faint,  but  cheering  beam  : 
O  how  her  soul  exults  to  see 
Its  kindly,  heaven-lit  radiancy, 

Athwart  the  darkness  stream  ! 

From  thee,  thou  tranquil,  happy  vale, 
Where  oft  hath  strayed  my  pensive  tale, 

From  thee  that  light  arose : 
Amid  the  scenes  of  earlier  years, 
Of  childhood's  hopes  and  childhood's  fears, 

There,  there  its  lustre  glows. 

Should  not  the  friendly  taper  stand, 
Placed  by  a  fond  paternal  hand 

Within  the  latticed  frame ; 
A  lighthouse,  shining  for  the  soul 
O'er  the  black  waves  that  round  her  roll, 

With  guiding,  cheering  flame  ? 

Should  not  a  father's  bowels  yearn 
To  hail  the  prodigal's  return, 

To  speak  the  pardoning  word  ? 
Should  not  the  life-restoring  voice, 
That  bids  the  broken  heart  rejoice, 

First  from  his  lips  be  heard  ? 

Yes ;  let  the  judge  in  tones  severe, 
Like  death-knells  falling  on  the  ear, 
Pronounce  the  sinner's  doom  ; 


29 


But  Oh,  let  tears  of  pity  flow 
E'en  for  a  guilty  sufferer's  woe, 
Within  his  childhood's  home  ! 

And  was  it  so  ?  Did  Theroigne  see, 
Down  in  that  depth  of  misery, 
A  father's  hand  stretched  forth  to  save 
His  lost  one  from  a  yawning  grave  ? 
No,  no :  erect  in  sullen  pride, 
E'en  had  she  in  his  presence  died, 
Hardly  would  ye  have  seen  him  bow 
To  wipe  the  death-sweat  from  her  brow. 
It  was  a  mother's  hand,  that  traced 
The  burning  lines,  which  bade  her  haste, 
All  lost  and  ruined,  yet  to  prove 
How  changeless  is  a  woman's  love. 

And  now,  behold  her  drawing  near, 
Cheered  on  by  hope,  held  back  by  fear  ! 
The  old  familiar  scenes  arise 
To  sadden,  not  rejoice  her  eyes : — 
The  reverend  castle's  moss-grown  walls  ; 
Her  proud  seducer's  princely  halls ; 
The  "  happy  valley  "  bathed  in  light, 
So  calmly  still,  so  warmly  bright, 
That  sin,  and  sorrow,  and  despair 

"Would  seem  to  find  no  dwelling  there  : 

3* 


30 

The  tranquil  home,  that  saw  her  sip 
Life's  bitter  cup,  with  trembling  lip ; 
That  saw  her  when,  in  youth,  she  quaffed, 
With  eager  haste,  the  sweetened  draught; 
That  saw  her  when  she  seized  the  bowl 
Drugged  for  the  ruin  of  the  soul; 
And  to  the  dregs  the  poison  drained, 
By  God,  nor  man,  nor  fate  restrained. 

That  home  so  happy  once,  at  length, 
With  faltering  step  and  failing  strength 
She  reaches ; — but  no  beaming  eye 
More  brightly  beams  as  she  draws  nigh  : 
No  parent  greets  his  sorrowing  child 
With  soothing  word,  or  accent  mild : 
No  unbarred  door,  or  open  gate 
Stands,  her  arrival  to  await  : 
With  shutters  closed,  or  blinds  let  down, 
The  very  windows  seem  to  frown  ; 
As  if  the  senseless  wood  and  stone 
Disdained  the  fallen  one  to  own. 

*  ......    ; 

She  enters : — in  the  silent  hall, 
With  echoing  beat  her  footsteps  fall : 
Nought  else  she  hears  save  the  dull  click 
Of  the  old  dial's  measured  tick. 
She  listens  for  the  faintest  sound 
Of  living  thing : — all,  all  around 


31 

Is  still  as  death ;  upon  her  home 

Some  desolating  blight  has  come. 

There,  where  she  trusted  that  one  voice, 

At  least  would  bid  her  heart  rejoice, 

And  more  than  one  her  pardon  speak, 

Or  seal  its  impress  on  her  cheek ; — 

Within  her  father's  house  alone 

She  stands : — but  hark  !    that  deep-drawn  groan 

Issues  from  yonder  chamber ;  there 

Tutored,  perchance,  by  stern  despair, 

Some  hapless  sufferer  learns  to  glow 

With  pity  for  another's  woe. 

With  softest  touch  and  noiseless  tread 
(Half  hopeful,  half  o'erwhelmed  with  dread,) 
She  seeks  that  chamber ;  turns  the  key  ; 
Enters ;  and  starts,  appalled,  to  see 
Death's  funeral  Majesty  displayed, 
In  all  his  dreary  pomp  arrayed. 
No  cheerful  beam  of  garish  day, 
Amid  the  solemn  scene  may  stray ; 
But  the  dim  taper's  sacred  light 
Shines,  through  the  artificial  night, 
Upon  a  coffin,  (dreary  throne, 
Where  the  grim  monarch  sits  alone,) 
On  which  a  velvet  pall  outspread, 
(The  decent  covering  of  the  dead,) 
Sustains  a  cross,  benignant  sign, 
Pledge  to  mankind  of  love  divine. 


32 

Within  that  court  of  Death  she  sees, 
Low  crouching  on  his  bended  knees, — 
As  if  to  plead,  alas,  too  late 
Against  the  stern  decree  of  fate — 
Her  father,  left  thus  lonely  here, 
With  none,  not  one,  his  griefs  to  cheer. 

She  kneels  beside  him ;  breathes  his  name 

With  faltering  voice ;  nor  dares  to  claim, 

E'en  in  the  presence  of  the  dead, 

A  father's  blessing  on  her.  head. 

She  asks  but  to  receive  the  cup 

Of  sorrow,  e'er  he  drink  it  up ; 

And  taste  its  bitterness,  and  share 

The  grief  that  lays  him  prostrate  there. 

She  asks  but  to  sustain,  in  part, 

The  load  that  presses  on  his  heart ; 

To  swell  the  torrent  of  his  tears ; 

And  echo  to  his  sighs  with  hers. 

Alas !  she  knew  not  that  the  stroke 
Which  shivers  the  obdurate  oak, 
Leve  lied  at  iron  will  but  make 
The  mass  more  dense,  more  hard  to  break  : 
She  knew  not  that,  if  hearts  there  be 
Made  kindlier  by  their  misery, 
Others  there  are  which  sterner  grow 
B  eneath  each  heaven-inflicted  blow  : 


33 

She  knew  not  that  the  self-same  hour, 
Which  rudely  plucked  that  fragile  flower 
And  flung  it  to  the  earth,  had  traced 
Its  course  of  desolated  waste 
Upon  his  blighted  heart  and  mind, 
Nor  left  one  verdant  spot  behind. 

"  Murd'ress !"  he  cried,  "  and  art  thou  here ; 

"  Unchecked  by  grief,  unawed  by  fear  ? 

"  Canst  thou,  with  living  eyes,  survey 

"  The  poor,  heart-broken,  breathless  clay 

"  Of  her,  thy  mother,  by  thy  crime 

"  Cut  off,  e'en  in  her  life's  sweet  prime  ? 

"  0  had  she  sunk  into  the  earth, 

*'  Or  ere  she  gave  the  wanton  birth  ; 

"  Nor  left  a  recreant  to  disgrace 

"  By  foulest  deeds  her  stainless  race !" 

With  frantic  haste  he  tears  away 
The  coverings  of  the  lifeless  clay ; 
The  cross,  the  pall,  the  coffin-lid ; 
All,  all  by  which  the  dead  was  hid : 
And  views  again  that  pallid  face, 
Where  Death  has  left  his  darkening  trace. 
What  tranquil  sleep !  what  calm  repose ! 
What  rest  from  earth,  and  all  earth's  woes ! 
There  is  no  careworn  furrow  now 
Upon  that  pale  yet  placid  brow : 


34 

That  bosom  heaves  no  hopeless  sighs, 
Nor  floods  of  sorrow  drown  those  eyes : 
'Tis  as  if  heaven  itself  were  here, 
And  God  had  wiped  away  each  tear. 

"  My  spouse !  my  love !  my  own !"  he  cries, 
"  Once  more  I  view  thee  with  these  eyes ; 
"  Once  more  I  kiss  thy  gentle  cheek ; 
"  Once  more  these  words  of  passion  speak  ; 
"  Once  more  I  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 
"  E're  the  dark  grave  between  us  part !" 

And  Theroigne ! — 0  what  tongue  can  tell, 

As  on  her  ear  his  accents  fell, 

What  thrilling  agonies  of  pain 

Shot  through  her  heart,  and  racked  her  brain  ? 

She  "  heard  him,  but  she  heeded  not ;" 

Her  heart  was  turned  to  stone : 
The  past,  the  present  were  forgot ; 

All  but  the  dead  alone. 

She  saw  before  her  stiff,  and  cold, 

And  hastening  to  decay, 
The  arms  that  cradled  her  of  old, 

The  bosom  where  she  lay. 

She  saw  those  eyes,  whose  every  beam 

Was  kindled  from  above ; 
Those  lips  you  might  an  angel's  deern, 

So  full  of  truth  and  love ; 


35 

Voiceless  as  some  deserted  tomb, 
Where  e'en  the  worms  had  died ; 

Dark  as  the  deepest  midnight  gloom, 
When  stars  their  radiance  hide. 

And  did  she  weep,  and  tear  her  hair, 
And  smite  upon  her  breast  ? 

Or  strive,  by  shriekings  of  despair, 
To  break  the  sleeper's  rest  ? 

No ;  like  a  figure  carved  from  stone, 

So  motionless  and  cold, 
She  stood ;  nor  tear,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan 

Her  depth  of  anguish  told. 

'  Twas  a  paralysis  of  grief, 

A  syncope  of  woe ; 
Where  tears  alone  could  give  relief^ 

And  tears  refused  to  flow. 

Had  he  but  known,  that  wretched  man, 

To  read  her  inmost  soul ; 
And  trace  the  burning  lines,  which  ran 

Along  that  mystic  scroll : — 

Could  he  have  seen  the  dark  despair, 
•  The  horrible  remorse, 
Graven  on  her  heart  while  gazing  there 
Upon  that  silent  corse  : 


36 

Stern  though  he  were,  his  soul  had  bowed 

To  pity's  softening  power ; 
The  claims  of  filial  grief  allowed, 

And  pardoned  in  that  hour. 

But  love,  nor  pity  knew  he  now, 
Each  gentler  thought  had  fled, 

Since  shame  was  written  on  his  brow, 
And  his  soul's  joy  was  dead. 

Ye,  who  behold  your  social  hearth 
Still  gladdened  by  the  stainless  mirth 

Of  children  dear  as  life ; 
While  every  grief  is  gently  soothed, 
And  each  rough  path  benignly  smoothed 

By  a  devoted  wife ; 

Blame  not  the  man  whose  widowed  heart 
Had  seen  his  every  joy  depart, 

His  every  hope  cut  down  : 
Had  read  before  Death's  angel  came 
His  own  disgrace,  his  daughter's  shame, 

In  many  a  lowering  frown. 

Nay,  rather,  tears  of  pity  shed 

For  the  poor  wretch,  upon  whose  head 

The  storm  so  wildly  broke ; 
Who,  crouching  'neath  a  former  woe, 
Keceived  from  fate  a  heavier  blow  ; 

And  sunk  beneath  the  stroke. 


37 

"  Behold  !"  he  cries,  "  behold,  and  weep ! 
"  Thy  crime  hath  sealed  those  eyes  in  sleep ; 

"  Hath  stopped  that  vital  breath  ; 
"  Thy  hand  it  was  which  struck  the  blow 
66  That  laid  thy  peerless  mother  low, 

"  E'en  in  the  dust  of  death. 

"  Soon  as  she  heard  her  recreant  child, 
"  By  passion,  or  by  pride  beguiled, 

"  Her  father's  roof  had  fled ; 
"  Grey  hairs,  like  wintry  falls  of  snow, 
"  Their  whitening  hues  began  to  throw, 

"  Upon  her  sacred  head. 

"  Her  cheerful  step,  her  tranquil  mien, 

"  Each  day  more  slow,  more  sad  were  seen  ; 

"  And,  on  her  pallid  face, 
"  Easy  it  were  for  stranger  eye, 
"  With  no  discourteous  scrutiny, 

"  The  lines  of  grief  to  trace. 

"  But  when  thy  fickle,  perjured  lord 
"  Had  flung  thee  off,  no  more  adored, 

"  But  viewed  with  just  disdain, 
"  Oh  !  how  her  gentle,  loving  heart, 
"  Free  from  thy  guilt,  yet  felt  its  smart, 

"  And  suffered  in  thy  pain  ! 

"  Then,  O  my  angel !  then  I  saw 

"  The  shades  of  darkness  round  thee  draw 

c<  With  thickening,  deepening  gloom ; 
4 


;.      38 

"  And  vainly  cried  to  Heaven  above, 
"  To  spare  me,  in  its  pitying  love, 
"  So  terrible  a  doom. 

"  Why  did  I  live  this  day  to  see? 
"  This  day  of  deepest  misery  ? 

"  This  day  of  dark  despair  ? 
"  Why  didst  not  thou,  0  Glorious  God, 
"  Smite  me  in  mercy  with  Thy  rod, 

"  And  lay  me  prostrate  there  ? 

"  Hence,  wanton,  hence !    With  weary  feet 
"  Go,  search  for  some  obscure  retreat, 

"  Where  guilt  like  thine  may  hide ; 
"  And  still,  in  each  remotest  sphere, 
"  Let  these  words  ring  upon  thy  ear, 

"  FOR  THEE  THY  MOTHER  DIED  ! 

"  Still  let  her  melancholy  shade 

"  Haunt  thee,  in  ghastly  shroud  arrayed, 

"  And  with  meek  grief  thy  guilt  upbraid, 

"  Throughout  the  universe  : 
"  And  still,  to  sink  thee  in  despair, 
"  Through  the  wide  world  this  burden  bear, 

"THY  WRETCHED  FATHER'S  CURSE!" 


Slow,  sad,  and  solemn,  like  the  last  farewell 
To  friends  departed,  sounds  the  funeral  knell, 


39 

Slow,  sad,  and  solemn,  to  the  sacred  porch, 
(Begloomed,  not  lighted,  by  the  lurid  torch,) 
Death's  pomp  advances  :  'tis  the  homage  paid 
By  vanquished  mortals  to  his  kingly  shade. 
Angels  behold,  and  weep  while  they  survey 
God's  living  temple  turned  to  putrid  clay ; 
Demons  behold,  and  triumph,  till  they  hear 
The  Church's  requiem  chanted  o'er  the  bier : 
For  faith  even  here  can  strike  her  golden  strings, 
And  from  the  grave  her  bold  "  Resurgam"  sings. 

'Tis  over ;  and  the  crowds  who  came  to  gaze 
Or  drop  the  pitying  tear,  have  gone  their  ways, 
How  little  heeding  that  the  hour  draws  nigh, 
When  they,  too,  like  the  buried  one,  must  die  ! 
'Tis  over ;  and,  with  rude,  unseemly  din, 
The  hurrying  grave-digger  shovels  in 
The  ignoble  earth ;  and,  on  the  turf  relaid, 
Stamps  with  his  foot,  and  batters  with  his  spade; 
And  he,  too,  quits  the  spot,  and  whistles  gay, 
As  home  he  plods,  some  rustic  roundelay ; 
And  all  is  silent,  as  the  lips  that  sleep 
Beneath  that  load  of  earth,  so  dark  and  deep. 

But  see  !  who  yonder  comes  with  stealthy  tread, 
And  eyes  that  wander  timidly  around ; 

As  if  she  trembled  lest  the  very  dead 

Should   chide   her   footfalls,  wakened  by  the 
sound  ? 


40 

Who  is  it  ? — 'Tis  the  hapless  wretch,  who  hears 
Her  father's  curse  still  ringing  in  her  ears ; 
And  comes,   heart-broken,  yet   to   breathe   one 

prayer, 

One  faltering  prayer  to  Heaven  her  soul  to  spare 
Life's  bitter  dregs,  and  let  the  lost  one  hide 
In  the  grave's  shelter,  by  her  mother's  side. 

On  the  cold  damp  ground,  On  the  grassy  mound, 

Where  her  mother  calmly  sleeps, 
On  that  lowly  bed  Of  the  silent  dead 

She  lays  her  down,  and  weeps. 

And  her  thoughts  fly  back  O'er  the  golden  track 

Of  her  childhood's  sunny  hours ; 
When  the  world  shone  bright  In  life's  morning 
light, 

Or  was  dimmed  by  transient  showers. 

She  recalls  the  time  When,  in  youth's  sweet 
prime, 

With  the  false  one  she  would  rove 
On  the  sun-clad  hill,  By  the  sparkling  rill, 

Or  in  the  religious  grove. 

Then  she  lists  again  To  the  swelling  strain 

In  the  convent's  hallowed  pile, 
Now  falling  soft,  Now  rising  aloft, 

Through  the  dimly  lighted  aisle. 


41 

And  her  plighted  troth.  And  the  perjured  oath, 

And  her  farewell,  and  her  doom, 
Like  a  spectral  band,  All  around  her  stand, 

Faintly  visioned  'mid  the  gloom. 

But  lo !  a  form  angelic  seems  to  rise 
E'en  from  the  grave  whereon  she  prostrate  lies, 
And  higher,  and  still  higher  lifts  its  head 
Till  round  its  brows  the  ethereal  clouds  are  spread. 
White  are  its  locks,  and  shining  as  the  snows 
When  the  glad  sun  his  vernal  lustre  throws  > 
Its  face  is  radiant  as  the  sun's  bright  ray, 
When  the  red  morning  kindles  into  day ; 
Light  fleecy  vapors  robe  the  form  divine, 
And  his  tall  limbs  like  burning  columns  shine. 
In  his  left  hand  a  golden  cross  he  bears, 
While  to  the  throne -of  God  his  right  he  rears  ; 
Then,  with  a  voice  melodious,  yet  sublime, 
Like  the  deep  thunders  heard  in  torrid  clime, 
He  thus  addresses  her  : — "  One  woe  is  past ; 
"  Another  comes  ;  and  then  a  third, — the  last. 
"  Kise,  Theroigne,  rise ;  yet  shalt  thou  live  to  see 
"  Thy  triumph  in  the  traitor's  misery. 
"  That  perjured  wretch  shall,  from  thy  injured 

hands, 

"  Suffer  the  punishment  his  crime  demands : 
"  Thy   father,   softening,   shall   search    out   thy 

track, 
"  Revoke  his  curse,  and  call  his  wanderer  back, 


•  42 

"  Alas,  too  late  !  between  the  kindred  souls 
"  See  what  a  tide  of  human  slaughter  rolls  ! 
"  Poor  child  of  sorrow  !  couldst  thou  but  restrain 
"  The  raging  torrent,  or  its  wrath  sustain  ! — 
"  No  more ! — remember,  in  thy  darkest  hour, 

u  GOD'S  BRIGHTEST  JEWEL   IS  HlS  MERCY*  S  POWER." 

Tis  gone  ;  and  Theroigne  quits  her  native  land, 
To  seek  for  refuge  on  a  foreign  strand. 


•. 


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